but absolutely separating different races. The everlasting Yankees, with their shrewdness and enterprize, inhabit the Second Municipality; the wealthy French and Spanish fill up the First, with a large mixture of native Americans; but the Third Municipality is entirely French and Spanish. It was impossible for me to ascertain how many streets run through the city, but there are many. No fault can be found of the topography of Orleans, and it is strange that the regularity of the thorough fares should have been so well preserved under all the changes and vicissitudes through which she has passed. Everything is of interest here; even the names of the streets attract the notice of the visitor; and as he rides along, he may trace the different races who have formed and named them. He will pass through streets which the descendants of Spain first laid out, such as Esplanade, Ferdinand Casacalvo, Morales, and Perdido. Again his eye will glance at French names, such as Josephine, Bourbon, Chartres, Notre Dame, Dauphin, and Toulouse. Then there are various streets bearing the names of all the saints known to the Catholic devotee. In respect to names very little of Orleans has been Americanized. Occasionally you will meet with such names as Commerce and Canal, which doubtless sound very vulgar to the the French. But the master street of the world is the great Levee, usually from two to five hundred feet wide from the river to the buildings. From this great thoroughfare all others diverge, and it is the greatest mart of its extent in the world. While I was there, THIRTY-SIX THOUSAND BARRELS OF FLOUR were sold in a few hours! And while this astonishing transfer was going on, thousands of other produce and commodities were changing hands. Many years ago it was used as a fashionable promenade to enjoy the breezes of the Mississippi. Commerce has changed its character entirely. Now scenes of the most intensely exciting character are upon the Levee. The very air howls with an eternal din and noise. Drays and wagons of all descriptions, loaded with the produce of every clime, move on continually in one unbroken chain. Ships from every nation, whose masts tower aloft in a dense forest for five miles, with thirty thousand sailors and stevedores, busily loading and unloading, stand in your view. Steamboats, and crafts of every make and shape, from every river which empties into the Mississippi, are here mingling in the strife of commerce. The rough and homely produce of the far and cold Iowa—of the distant Wisconsin—of the black and stormy Northern Lakes, is here thrown upon the Levee in hurry and confusion mingled and mixed with the sweets and luxuries of the sunny tropics. Here, too, the various races of men astonish one. The Kentuckian with an honest and ruddy face; the Yankee with his shrewd and enterprising look; the rich planter of Mississippi; the elegant and chivalrous Carolinian; the sensible and honest citizen from the "Old North State;" the lively, fine-looking, and smart Georgian; the talented and handsome Virginian; the swarthy creole sugar planter; the rough hunter from the gorges of the Rocky Mountains—all natives of the Union—all freemen alike—all meet upon this common ground of Liberty and Commerce. And this picture must be carried out with the children of adoption. Here is also the dark and mysterious Spaniard puffing his cigar and sending up volumes of smoke through his black imperials; the gay and frisky Frenchman; the sturdy Dutchman; the son of Erin, and the cunning Jew. A trite adage says that "it takes all kinds of people to make a world;" verily, then, the Levee is a world.

CHAPTER V.

THE CATHEDRAL.—ORPHAN'S ASYLUM.—THE SISTERS OF CHARITY, ETC.

Immediately opposite the Place d'Armes, and fronting the levee, rises in solemn grandeur, the celebrated Cathedral. It must be very old, and was said to have been erected through the zealous munificence of Don Andre Almonoster. Connected with the building is a story curious and romantic, and from all I could learn no less true. When Don Andre died, he exacted of the priesthood the positive injunction, that every Saturday evening prayer should be offered up for his soul, and in default thereof the property was to pass into other hands. From that day to this, in fulfilling these extraordinary stipulations, not a solitary omission has been made. And as you stand about sundown at the Cathedral, you will hear the doleful bell mournfully recalling the memory of the departed Don Andre! I was there at that hour. The dark and frowning church towered far above me. The deep-toned bell echoed its mournful sound until twilight began to mantle the city with her sable curtains. I thought of Don Andre. I thought of his injunction; I thought of his soul, and I turned from the consecrated place with feelings the most singular and solemn.

The edifice in appearance is grand, antique and venerable. Judging from the disregard to repairs, I should conclude it was designed for it to remain so. Built of brick, with very thick walls and stuccoed, it nevertheless looks black and dingy, all which assists to make it more imposing to the stranger. A large door in the middle will let you into the ante-chamber, and from this by a door on the right and one on the left, you enter the immense chapel. Passing by two large marble basins filled with holy water, where devotees sprinkle and cross themselves upon entering; you are by the side of the "confession boxes." There are three on each side, each about ten feet high and eight feet square, with three apartments or stalls; the middle one for the priest, the other two for those wishing to lay down their burden of sins. The priest standing in the middle hears an account of the transgressions of the one on the right through a small grated window, while the one on the left is kneeling until his fellow-sufferer gets through. All that can be heard is a low whispering and murmuring throughout all the confessional boxes, where six priests are continually officiating. When the penitent is dismissed by the holy father, he appears to be a happier man, and on coming out of the box immediately kneels before the altar, and another person takes his place.

This system of confession is often denounced; I do not pretend to defend it, but there is much excuse for it. What Protestant is there who in deep trouble, does not find relief in disclosing those troubles to an old confidential person in whom he can confide, and who gives him good advice? Are not the cases somewhat similar?

I watched and listened attentively to see or hear the settlement between the father and sinner, but I made no discoveries and heard no money jingle. All classes unite here in the services, and as you cast your eye over this devout assembly, the elegant young lady may be seen kneeling on the hard stone floor, beside the negro or mulatto. And still further on, the well-attired gentleman prostrates himself with the ragged beggar in worshipping the same common and universal God! All appear to be deeply engaged, and in no church can there be found so much profound silence, awe and veneration. The three altars are so far distant that the fathers are seldom heard, and the worshippers are governed in their devotions by the ringing of bells. There is nothing very imposing in the interior, some very fine paintings representing incidents in the Bible, hang around the walls.

In regard to the public buildings, "there is probably no city in the United States that has so many benevolent institutions as New Orleans, in proportion to its population. Certainly it has not an equal in those voluntary contributions which are sometimes required to answer the immediate calls of distress. Here assembled a