possessors through centuries of valor and adventurous achievement.

Canal street cuts this cosmopolitan capital in twain, and until recently was itself divided into two parts by the canal which gave it its name, and which ran from the river to Lake Pontchartrain. New Orleans is as dependent upon its canals for safety and health as are Amsterdam or Rotterdam; the lowlands are only reclaimed from overflow by most energetic measures, of which we will speak more anon; and it was only when a large number of other canals had been opened that the principal one on Canal street was closed. The wide, fine avenue is bordered by shops of no mean pretensions, and by many handsome residences; it boasts of Christ Church, the Varieties Theater, the noted restaurants of Victor and Moreau, the statue of Henry Clay, and the new Custom House, which is by no means as elegant as it is useful. The buildings on Canal street are not high and crowded together as in New York and Paris; they are usually only two or three stories high, and along the first story runs a porch which serves as a balcony to those dwelling above, and as protection from sun and rain to promenaders below. The banks, insurance offices, and wholesale stores fronting on Canal street are elegant and modern; and since the war there has been a great improvement in the general tone of business architecture. Under the slavery régime, little or no at tention was paid to fine buildings; exterior

decoration, save that which the magnificent foliage of the country gave, was entirely disregarded. But now the citizens begin to take pride in their public edifices. A promenade on Canal street is quite as picturesque as any in the French quarter. There the negro bootblack sits sprawled in a chair, with his own splay-feet on the blacking-block; the old bouquet-sellers, both black and white, are ranged along the walls at some convenient corner, with baskets filled with breast-knots of violets, and a host of rosebuds and camelias and other rich blossoms. The newsboy, vociferous as his brother of Gotham, yells his yells; the roustabouts from the levée, clad in striped trowsers of miraculous hues, and in coats and hats which seem to have been slept in for a century, tumble homeward to dinner, with their cotton-hooks clenched in their brawny hands; the elegantly-dressed ropers for gambling-houses-one of the curses of New Orleans-haunt each conspicuous corner, and impudently scan passers-by. On the broad

raised level, stone-curbed and treeplanted, in the middle of the street, the heroic mule struggles with the convenient car, which in other cities two horses draw; and he whirls the airy vehicle along the well-laid tracks, while his driver watches the passengers, who are required to drop their fare into a little box, glass-faced, fastened near the front platform. There are six of these city railway-lines, all centering on Canal street; one of them, the New Orleans and Carrollton, running six miles into the suburbs, is presided over by General G. T. Beauregard, and is bordered by some of the most beautiful residences

in Louisiana. From twelve to two, the American ladies monopolize Canal street, coming to it from all portions of the city, on errands of shopping; and there hundreds of lovely brunettes may be seen, in carriages, in cars, in couples with mamma, or accompanied by the tall, dark, thin Southern youth, attired in black broadcloth, the jettest of slouch hats, and the most irreproachable of morninggloves. Then the confectioners' shops are crowded with dainty little women, who have the Italian rage for confetti, and the sugared cakes of the pastry-cook vanish like morning dew. The matinées at the American theaters, as at the French, begin at noon; and at three or half-past three twice a week, the tide of beauty floods Canal, St. Charles, Carondelet, Rampart, and a host of other streets. At evening, Canal street is very quiet, and hardly seems the main thoroughfare of a city of two hundred thousand people. The population delights in parades in the great avenue; and from Carnival to midsummer there is many a pageant of importance, followed by hundreds of screaming negro urchins, who are always on hand wherever there is noise or disturbance.

The American quarter of New Orleans is vastly superior to the French in width of avenues, in beauty of garden and foliage, and in driveways communicating with the open country; but the driveways of many of the streets are villainously out of repair, the desperate condition of the city's finances accounting therefor. Some of the avenues are grass-grown, and filled with ruts and hollows, even in front of superb mansions, the very gardens surrounding which must have cost fortunes. In that section not inaptly designated "Gar

CHRIST CHURCH.

the

City," there is

street after street lined with spacious houses set down in the midst of delicious gardens, parks and orchards; orange trees grow in the yards, and roses clamber in

DR. PALMER'S CHURCH.

at the windows. Louisiana and Napoleon

avenues;

Prytania,

Plaquemine, Chest

nut, and Camp, Jena, Cadiz, Valence, and Bordeaux, and the long and superb St. Charles streets, are the homes of well-to-do Americans, who have

been able to keep about them some little comfort even after the rude march of war. The city is making its most rapid growth in the direction of Carrollton, a pretty suburb filled with pleasant homes, and within three-quarters of an hour's ride of the central business avenue. Along St. Charles street, near Canal, are the famous St. Charles Hotel, the Academy of Music, and the St. Charles Theater, both wellappointed theatrical edifices; the Masonic, City, and Exposition Halls. Opposite the City Hall,-which is one of the noblest public buildings in New Orleans, and is built in granite and white marble, after the Grecian Ionic order, with a fine portico, and granite pillars sustaining a massy pediment,-is Lafayette Square; on its south-western side the First Presbyterian Church; and at its southern extremity the Odd Fellows' Hall, where the McEnery Legislature held its sessions. On Common street, one of the business thoroughfares of the town, is the University of Louisiana, a handsome edifice flanked by two wings, one of which is now occupied by the dilapidated State Library, and the other by the Law School. Just around the corner, on Dryades street, when the Legislature is in session, you may see the law-making body which is upheld by the executive department of the United States. Around the doorway of the Mechanics' Institute one or two negro policemen, armed with clubs and revolvers, are standing; mounting a staircase covered with old and tobaccostained matting, you may enter a long hall carpeted with dirtier matting; and there, at clumsy desks, sit the law-makers,-a heterogeneous mass of negroes standing outside the

railings, and listening with open mouths to the eloquence of their fellows, who have been dignitied with office. Nearly all the honorable representatives are black; and their opposition is instant and determined to anything which is likely to better the present horrible condition of white society in Louisiana. In the Senate-chamber the same scene is repeated; if a colored man is in the chair, he is constantly falling into the profoundest errors with regard to his "rulings" and "decisions," and finds it extremely difficult to follow any bill the moment it becomes the subject of dispute; and there is always the black man who is perpetually hopping up to say, "No, sir; no, sir; I object to that, sir!" and the lean white man, dressed in the extraordinarily new clothes, and with a general mushroom aspect about him, who smiles withering smiles of contempt on the striving negroes, as he endeavors, from a carpet-bag point of view, to show them where they are in error. The scene would be ludicrous were it not so saddening; had it not already been enacted for five weary years, while the State has meantime gone nearer and nearer the verge of ruin, deeper and deeper into the abyss of crushing taxation. Even the Governor, who has to do with this Legislature, must now and then wish that he had better material to work with.

There are one hundred and sixteen churches in New Orleans, and one can hardly hope to peer into them all; but here on Baronne street you may steal for a moment into the shade of the Jesuit Church, and entering the dimlylighted nave, see the black-robed girls at confessional, and the richly-dressed women making their rounds before the chapels with prayerbook in hand, kneeling beside the marketwoman and the serving-girl. The Jesuit Church, St. Augustine's, St. Joseph's, St. Patrick's, and the Mortuary Chapel, are among the finer of the Catholic religious structures; St. Patrick's is a fine Gothic structure.

The Protestant churches are nearly all elegant specimens of modern church architecture, the older edifices having given way. The oldest of the Episcopal organizations in New Orleans, dating back to 1806, is Christ Church, on Canal street, founded by Bishop Chase. It was the germ of Protestantism in the southwest. The present edifice is the third erected by the society. Trinity and St. Paul's are considered the fashionable Episcopal churches. The McGhee Church, of which Rev. Dr. Tudor is pastor, is the principal of the Methodist Episcopal churches South. The Northern post-bellum settlers are mainly Congregational or Methodist, and

have gathered at the First Congregational Church, and at the Methodist Episcopal Ames Chapel. The most noted Presbyterian preacher in the city is Rev. Dr. Palmer, pastor of the "First Church," whose eloquence has attained more than a local reputation. The principal Baptist society assembles at the Coliseum Place Church. There are great numbers of colored church organizations, many of which are in a very flourishing condition, having been largely aided by Northern missions.

New Orleans extends from the Mississippi River, whose wayward bend gives authority for the appellation of "Crescent City," to Lake Pontchartrain, lying several feet below the level of the river, and having an outlet on the Gulf. The city is laid out as far as the very borders of the Lake, although the cypress swamps there have not yet been filled up; and the rain-fall, the sewerage of the town, and the surplus water from the Mississippi, are drained into the Lake. The canals, which run from the city to Pontchartrain, are very picturesque. Both the Old and the New Basins are navigable; little and large steamers run through them into the Lake, and thence along the coast; and schooners and barks, laden with lumber and produce, are towed in and out by mules. The city is divided into drainage districts, in each of which large draining machines are at work, pumping vigorously, to keep the city free from

the encroaching river. After a heavy rain the lowlands for miles around would be entirely submerged, were it not for the canals and the drainage system. The talented city engineer, Mr. Bell, now has in construction a superb levée, to extend four miles and a half along the front of Lake Pontchartrain, furnishing a grand driveway and promenade on the shore of as delicious an inland sea as the world can boast. This levée will counteract the action of the lake, which now hinders the perfection of the system for draining the city, and will bring a new location for fine residences into market. Two canals now cut through the ridge of land known as the "Metairie"-lying half-way between the river and the lake-and the levées on the Pontchartrain border are now necessary.

MINTON

ST. PAUL'S CHURCH.

on the rippling water; the oranges in the trees below; the group of sailors tugging at the cable of their schooner; the pretty assemblage of cottages near the levée's end; the dismounted ancient cannon, half-buried under the rampant grasses; the wealth of peach-blossoms in the bent tree near the parapet; and the bevy of barelegged children playing about their mother, as she sits on the sward, cutting rose-stems, and twisting the blushing blossoms into bouquets;-all this in March!

When you are tired of the French quarter and have seen all the antiquities in that section, drive lakeward, along the shell-road which leads from Canal street straight out past the Metairie and Oakland parks, along the New Basin, to the lake. On Sundays this driveway is crowded with teams of every grade, and the charming restaurants, half hidden in foliage, along the way, reëcho to boisterous merriment. But on a week-day you may drive quietly along the dark, gleaming canal-waters' brink, finding a strange mixture of Bois-de-Boulogne and Rotterdam-Park suggestions at every turn. Along the canal the schooners glide lazily; negro-boys fish wearily on the banks; the intense green of the leaves makes strange reflection in the water; and, arrived at the lake, you catch a lovely view of dark canal-surface in the foreground, with a gayly painted sail-boat lying close to the bank; an ornamental gateway just beyond; a flock of goats browsing at the roadside; and, miles away, the blue gleam of the lake-surface, and a white lighthouse standing lonely on a narrow point of land. Or you may go to the levée and watch the dredging machines plunging their long pans into the lake-bed, and bringing up half a ton of earth at every clutch, swinging it around and depositing it on the progressing breakwater. Or you may step into a sail-boat and let a brown, barefooted Creole fisherman sail you away, swift as thought, down the lake to the pier where the railroad from New Orleans terminates; then back again, up the Bayou St. John, until he lands you near the walls of the old Spanish fort; there you will find, set down upon the site of the vanished fort, a lovely summer-house, an orchard, and a rosegarden; from the balcony you can note a long mole running out to sea, the sun's gold,

Nay, more; you shall sail home as the day deepens, and, seated in the fragrant diningroom in the restaurant near the canal, look out upon the passing barges and boats, noiselessly gliding townward; hear the shouts of festive parties as they wander on the levée, or along the cypress-girt shore; hear the boatmen singing catches; see a blood-red moon, rising slowly, and casting an enchanted light over every object, even the burnished surface of the water-way, whereon a path of crimson is for a moment traced, then suddenly lost in shade.

If capital could only flow in here and develop all these wonderful lowlands! That thought strikes you at every turn. But the people have given up hoping. "It were far better," said a native Louisianian to me, "that our State be reduced to the condition of a territory, and that Congress assume the debt we have made, for the present, than to allow our actual condition to continue. This stagnation is becoming intolerable."

New Orleans suffers peculiarly, its taxable property being cumbered with two huge debts -that of the city itself, now estimated at about $22,500,000, and over three-fifths of the State's various liabilities of $42,000,000, While the city groans under such enormous taxation, it is loaded down with grievous license-burdens on all trades, professions and occupations, amounting to nearly $1,000,000 annually. Under these burdens it is not astonishing that real-estate in the city has declined more than thirty per cent. in most and more than fifty in many cases. The double public debt of the city is already more than one-fourth of its property assessment, and many times more than the value of all the available property owned by the corporation. The annual expenditures of the city have been increased from $3,767,ooo, in 1862, to $6,961,381 in 1872; and still mount upward. Meantime the streets remain uncared for, and the treasury is empty. Where has the money gone? The city certificates are sold on the street at enormous discounts; the Legislature's sessions cost the people half a million dollars yearly, instead of $100,000 as in 1860, and this also the city is compelled mainly to pay; therefore, of course, whoever buys property in the city of New Orleans buys with it a share of a great and discouraging public debt.

Here are two or three instances which will show the present status of property: A gentle

TRINITY CHURCH.

MECHANICS' INSTITUTE-SEAT OF THE KELLOGG LEGISLATURE.

man was, six months ago, offered a loan of $6,000 on the security of certain real-estate owned by him. He did not then need the money; but recently went to the capitalist, and said, "I will now accept your kind offer." "I would not," said the capitalist, "lend you $600 on the property now. It is worth nothing as security. No property in the city, in the current condition of politics, is worth anything."

A gentleman who purchased, a short time. before the war, a fine wooded estate in a rich section of Louisiana, for $100 in gold per acre, informed me that he had tried repeatedly to borrow upon the security of that estate, and that'he could not get any one to . lend a sum equivalent to $1 per acre on it.

Another, a person of influence and good position, took occasion some time since to make a round of inspection among the foreign emigrants, who were preparing to leave in large numbers. On inquiring among the Germans, who were rapidly departing, he found that they were all discouraged at the continuance of the crisis, and had either decided to emigrate to Texas, California or the North, or to return to Germany.

Many people have paid no taxes for eight or ten years. In talking with a collector the other day, he said: "I'd rather do most anything than try to collect taxes. When I present the papers, folks generally pay the city taxes if they have the money, and then refuse to pay the State tax at all. They just