had so recuperated that I
had every hope of his speedy and full restoration.

It was the beginnings of winter when we reached New Orleans; but during
the whole month of December while we remained in that city, winter,
if indeed it was winter, which we could hardly believe, was only a
prolongation of the last beautiful autumn days we had left at the north.
Now Orleans was then at the very height of prosperity; business
was brisk, money was plenty, the ships of all nations and countless
steamboats from St. Louis, Cincinnati, Louisville and all points up the
Mississippi and Ohio rivers lay at the levee. The levee itself, from
end to end, for miles along the river front, was one mass of merchandise
which had come to the city, or was awaiting shipment. I had never seen a
livelier city. Indescribably gay, too, was New Orleans that winter. The
city was full of strangers; the hotels were thronged; there were balls
every night; the theatres were crowded, and everybody seemed bent
on having a good time. With all the rest, there was an extraordinary
military furor, and militia companies and regiments paraded the streets
every day, while secession meetings were held in various halls, or in
the public squares, nearly ever night.

From the St. Charles hotel where we stopped, St. Charles street seemed
ablaze and alive all night, and densely thronged all day. Sunday brought
no rest, for Sunday, so far as military parades, amusement and general
gaiety were concerned, was the liveliest day in the week; and Sunday
night the theatres were sure to present their best performances and to
draw their largest audiences. And so, from morning till night, and
from night till morning again, all was whirl, stir, bustle, business,
enjoyment, and excitement. To me, unaccustomed as I was to such scenes,
New York even seemed tame and dull, and slow in comparison with New
Orleans.

This is a picture of the Crescent City as it presented itself to me and
to my son in the early part of the winter before the war. No one knew
or even dreamed of the terrible times that were to come. No one believed
that war was probable, or even possible; it was well enough, perhaps,
to prepare for it; but secession was to be an accomplished fact, and
the North and all the world would quietly acknowledge it. This was the
general sentiment in the city; though secession, and what would, or what
might come of it, was the general topic of talk in the hotels, in the
restaurants,