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EDITORA EXECUTIVA CAPA E PROJETO GRÁFICO
Rafaella Machado Paula Cruz
COODENADORA EDITORIAL DIAGRAMAÇÃO
Stella Carneiro Mayara Kelly
EQUIPE EDITORIAL REVISÃO
Juliana de Oliveira Juliana Werneck
Isabel Rodrigues TÍTULO ORIGINAL
Manoela Alves The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
Lígia Almeida

CIP-BRASIL. CATALOGAÇÃO NA PUBLICAÇÃO

SINDICATO NACIONAL DOS EDITORES DE LIVROS, RJ

Haddon, Mark
H145e
O estranho caso do cachorro morto [recurso eletrônico] / Mark
Haddon ; tradução Luiz Antonio Aguiar, Marisa Reis Sobral. - 1. ed. -
Rio de Janeiro : Galera
Record, 2022.
recurso digital ; epub
Tradução de: The curious incident of the dog in the night-time
Formato: epub
Requisitos do sistema: adobe digital editions
Modo de acesso: world wide web
ISBN 978-65-5981-145-8 (recurso eletrônico)
1. Ficção inglesa. 2. Livros eletrônicos. I. Aguiar, Luiz Antonio. II.
Sobral, Marisa Reis. III. Título.
22-76649
CDD: 823
CDU: 82-3(410.1)

Gabriela Faray Ferreira Lopes - Bibliotecária - CRB-7/6643

Copyright © 2004 by Mark Haddon

Todos os direitos reservados.

Proibida a reprodução, no todo ou em parte, através de quaisquer meios.

Os direitos morais do autor foram assegurados.

Texto revisado segundo o novo Acordo Ortográfico da Língua Portuguesa.

Direitos exclusivos de publicação em língua portuguesa somente para o Brasil

adquiridos pela
EDITORA GALERA RECORD LTDA.
Rua Argentina, 120 - Rio de Janeiro, RJ - 20921-380 - Tel.: (21) 2585-2000,
que se reserva a propriedade literária desta tradução.
 Este livro
é dedicado a
Sos

Com agradecimentos a
Kathryn Shaw, Clare Alexander,
Kate Shaw e Dave Cohen
 Agradecimentos

O logo do metrô, as estampas de tecido e o diagrama da linha

foram reproduzidos com a gentil permissão da Transport for
London. O anúncio da Kuoni, reproduzido com a gentil
permissão da Kuoni Advertising. Questões do exame de
matemática avançada reproduzidas com a gentil permissão do
OCR. Todo esforço foi feito para encontrar outros detentores
de copyright, e os editores terão prazer em corrigir erros ou
omissões em futuras edições.
 Sumário

2
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71
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Apêndice
 2

assavam sete minutos da meia-noite. O cachorro estava deitado na

P
grama, no meio do jardim da frente da senhora Shears. Os olhos dele estavam
fechados. Parecia que ele estava correndo de lado, do jeito que os cachorros
correm, quando acham que estão atrás de um gato, num sonho. Mas o
cachorro não estava correndo nem estava adormecido. O cachorro estava
morto. Havia um forcado de jardinagem atravessando o cachorro. As pontas
do forcado deviam ter varado o corpo dele e se cravado na terra, porque o
forcado não tinha caído. Concluí que o cachorro devia ter sido morto com o
forcado porque não consegui ver outros ferimentos nele e não acho que
alguém ia enfiar um forcado de jardim num cachorro se ele já tivesse morrido
de alguma outra causa, como câncer, por exemplo, ou um acidente de carro.
Mas não podia ter certeza disso.
Atravessei o portão da senhora Shears, fechando-o atrás de mim. Fui
andando pela grama e me ajoelhei junto do cachorro. Coloquei minha mão no
focinho dele. Ainda estava quente.
O cachorro se chamava Wellington. Pertencia à senhora Shears, que era
nossa amiga. Ela morava no lado oposto da rua, duas casas para a esquerda.
Wellington era um poodle. Mas não um daqueles poodles pequenos, que
têm pelos bem cortadinhos. Era um poodle grande. Ele tinha pelo
encaracolado, mas, quando você se aproximava, dava para ver que a pele
debaixo do pelo era meio amarelo pálida, como de uma galinha.
Afaguei Wellington e fiquei me perguntando quem o tinha matado e por
quê.
 3

eu nome é Christopher John Francis Boone. Sei todos os países do

M
mundo e suas capitais, e todos os números primos até 7.507.
Há oito anos, quando conheci Siobhan, ela me mostrou este desenho:

E eu sabia que significava triste, que é como eu me senti quando encontrei

o cachorro morto.
Então ela me mostrou este desenho:

E eu sabia que significava feliz, que é como eu fico quando estou lendo
sobre as missões espaciais Apollo, ou quando ainda estou acordado às três ou
às quatro da manhã e posso caminhar para cima e para baixo na rua e
imaginar que sou a única pessoa no mundo inteiro.
Então ela desenhou algumas outras caras:
 Mas não consegui saber o que elas significavam.
Consegui que Siobhan desenhasse várias dessas caras e então escrevi
embaixo delas exatamente o que significavam. Guardei o pedaço de papel no
meu bolso e daí o tirava quando não entendia o que alguém estava dizendo.
Mas era muito difícil saber qual dos diagramas representava as caras que eles
faziam porque elas mudavam muito depressa.
Quando contei a Siobhan que estava fazendo isso, ela pegou um lápis e
outro pedaço de papel e disse que era uma coisa que, provavelmente, fazia as
pessoas se sentirem muito:

E então ela riu. Por isso, rasguei o pedaço de papel original e o joguei fora.
E Siobhan pediu desculpas. Então, agora, quando não sei o que alguém está
dizendo, ou eu pergunto o que querem dizer ou me afasto.
 5

rranquei o forcado do cachorro, depois levantei-o em meus braços e o

A
abracei. Estava saindo sangue dos buracos feitos pelo forcado.
Eu gosto de cachorros. A gente sempre sabe o que um cachorro está
pensando. O cachorro pode estar de quatro jeitos. Feliz, triste, zangado e
concentrado. Além disso, os cachorros são leais e não dizem mentiras porque
não podem conversar.
Eu já estava abraçando o cachorro havia quatro minutos, quando escutei
um grito. Olhei e vi a senhora Shears correndo do seu vestíbulo na minha
direção. Ela estava usando pijama e um roupão. Suas unhas dos dedos do pé
estavam pintadas de cor-de-rosa brilhante e ela estava sem sapatos.
Ela estava gritando:
— Mas que merda você fez com o meu cachorro?
Não gosto quando as pessoas gritam comigo. Fico com medo, achando
que elas vão me machucar, ou me tocar, e nunca sei o que pode acontecer.
— Largue o cachorro — ela gritou. — Largue a porra do cachorro pelo
amor de Deus.
Larguei o cachorro no gramado e recuei dois metros.
Ela se abaixou. Pensei que ela fosse pegar o cachorro, mas ela não fez isso.
Talvez ela tenha reparado naquele sangue todo e não quis se sujar. Daí, ela
começou a gritar de novo.
Coloquei minhas mãos nos meus ouvidos, fechei os olhos e fui me
inclinando para a frente até que fiquei todo curvado, com a minha testa
pressionando a grama. A grama estava molhada e fria. Estava gostosa.
 7

ste é um romance de mistério e assassinato.

E Siobhan me disse que eu deveria escrever qualquer coisa que eu gostasse
de ler. Normalmente, só leio livros de ciência e matemática. Não gosto de
romances de verdade. Nos romances de verdade, as pessoas dizem coisas
como: “Sou veiado de ferro, de prata e de riscas feitas de nada mais que lama.
Não posso contrair meu punho com firmeza para segurar a mão daqueles
cujo aperto não depende de estímulo.”1 O que isto significa? Eu não sei. Nem
o Pai. Nem Siobhan, nem o senhor Jeavons. Eu perguntei a eles.
Siobhan tem cabelos louros e compridos, e usa óculos feitos de plástico
verde. O senhor Jeavons cheira a sabão e usa sapatos marrons que têm mais
ou menos sessenta pequeninos buracos circulares em cada pé.
Mas, de romances de mistério e assassinato, eu gosto. Então, estou
escrevendo um romance de mistério e assassinato.
Em um romance de mistério e assassinato, alguém tem de descobrir quem
é o assassino e arrumar um jeito de prendê-lo. É um enigma. Quando é um
enigma dos bons, a gente às vezes consegue descobrir a solução antes do fim
do livro.
Siobhan disse que o livro deveria começar com alguma coisa para prender
a atenção das pessoas. Foi por isso que comecei com o cachorro. Mas,
também comecei com o cachorro porque aconteceu comigo e acho difícil
imaginar coisas que não aconteceram comigo.
Siobhan leu a primeira página e disse que era diferente. Ela colocou essa
palavra entre aspas, fazendo um gesto em curva com seus dedos indicadores e
médios. Ela disse que, normalmente, eram pessoas que eram assassinadas em
romances de mistério e assassinato. Eu respondi que dois cachorros foram
assassinados em O cão dos Baskervilles, o tal do cão de caça e o spaniel de
James Mortimer, mas Siobhan disse que eles não foram as vítimas do assassino
e, sim, o sir Charles Baskerville. Ela disse que isso era porque os leitores se
importam mais com as pessoas do que com os cachorros, então, se uma
pessoa é assassinada no livro, os leitores vão querer continuar a leitura.
Eu disse que queria escrever sobre alguma coisa real e eu sabia de pessoas
que já tinham morrido, mas não conhecia ninguém que tivesse sido morto, a
não ser o pai de Edward, da escola, o senhor Paulson, e isso tinha sido um
acidente de voo de planador, e não assassinato, e, na verdade, eu não o
conhecia. Disse também que eu me importava com cachorros porque eles
eram leais e honestos, e alguns cachorros eram muito inteligentes e mais
interessantes do que muitas pessoas. Steve, por exemplo, que vinha para a
escola às quintas, precisa de ajuda para comer sua comida e nem mesmo
consegue sair correndo para buscar uma vareta. Siobhan me pediu para não
dizer isso na frente da mãe do Steve.

1. Achei este livro na biblioteca, numa vez em que a Mãe me levou à cidade.
 11

ntão a polícia chegou. Eu gosto da polícia. Eles têm uniformes e números

E
e você sabe o que eles estão querendo fazer. Havia uma policial e um policial.
A policial vestia calças apertadas, com um pequeno furo no tornozelo
esquerdo e um risco vermelho no meio do furo. O policial tinha uma grande
folha alaranjada grudada na parte de baixo do seu sapato, que estava saindo
pelo lado.
A policial colocou seus braços em volta da senhora Shears e a conduziu de
volta para sua casa.
Eu levantei minha cabeça da grama.
O policial acocorou-se junto de mim e perguntou:
— Você poderia me dizer o que está acontecendo aqui, meu rapaz?
Eu me sentei na grama e disse:
— O cachorro está morto.
— Acho que isso eu já adivinhei — disse ele.
Eu disse:
— Acho que alguém matou o cachorro.
— Quantos anos você tem? — perguntou ele.
Eu respondi:
— Tenho 15 anos, 3 meses e 2 dias.
— E o quê, precisamente, você estava fazendo no jardim? — perguntou
ele.
— Eu estava segurando o cachorro — respondi.
— E por que você estava segurando o cachorro? — perguntou ele.
Era uma pergunta difícil. Foi só uma coisa que eu quis fazer. Eu gosto de
cachorros. Fiquei triste de ver que o cachorro estava morto.
Eu gosto de policiais também e queria responder direito à pergunta, mas o
policial não me deu tempo suficiente para preparar a resposta.
— Por que você estava segurando o cachorro? — perguntou ele de novo.
— Eu gosto de cachorros — disse eu.
— Você matou o cachorro? — perguntou ele.
Eu disse:
— Eu não matei o cachorro.
— Este forcado é seu? — perguntou ele.
Eu disse:
— Não.
— Você parece estar muito perturbado com tudo isso — disse ele.
Ele estava fazendo perguntas demais e as estava fazendo depressa demais
também. As perguntas estavam se amontoando na minha cabeça como os
pães de forma da fábrica onde o tio Terry trabalha. A fábrica é uma padaria e
ele trabalha numa máquina de cortar o pão em fatias. Daí, tem vezes que a
fatiadora não está trabalhando suficientemente rápido, mas o pão continua
vindo, e vindo, e daí os pães ficam amontoados. Tem vezes que eu penso que
minha cabeça é uma máquina, mas nem sempre como uma máquina de fatiar
pão. Isto torna mais fácil explicar para outras pessoas o que está acontecendo
dentro dela.
O policial disse:
— Eu vou perguntar para você mais uma vez...
Eu me estendi de bruços na grama, outra vez, pressionei minha testa no
chão novamente e fiz o barulho que o Pai chama de gemido. Eu faço esse
barulho quando tem muita informação entrando na minha cabeça vindo do
mundo de fora. É como quando você está aborrecido e aperta o rádio no
ouvido e o sintoniza entre duas estações, assim tudo que sai é um chiado, que
nem um barulho vazio, e então você aumenta o volume, aumenta muito, para
só ficar ouvindo o chiado e então você sabe que está seguro porque não pode
ouvir mais coisa nenhuma.
O policial segurou meu braço e me pôs de pé.
Eu não gostei dele, me pegando daquele jeito.
E foi aí que bati nele.
 13

ste livro não vai ser engraçado. Não posso contar piadas porque nunca as
E
entendo. Aqui vai uma piada, por exemplo. É uma piada do Pai.

Seu rosto fechou-se, mas as cortinas eram reais.

Eu sabia por que era engraçado. Eu perguntei. É porque fechou-se, aqui, tem
três significados, que são 1) ficar dentro de alguma coisa ou coberto por
alguma coisa; 2) ficar aborrecido ou preocupado, e 3) algo que se pode abrir
ou fechar; e o significado 1 refere-se tanto ao rosto quanto às cortinas, o
significado 2 refere-se somente ao rosto, e o significado 3 refere-se somente
às cortinas.
Se eu tento contar a piada sozinho, fazendo a palavra significar as três
coisas diferentes ao mesmo tempo, é como ouvir três diferentes trechos de
uma música ao mesmo tempo, o que é incômodo e confuso e não é agradável
como é um chiado. É como três pessoas tentando conversar com você três
coisas diferentes ao mesmo tempo.
E por isso não há piadas neste livro.
 17

policial examinou-me por um tempo sem falar nada.

O Então, ele disse:
— Estou prendendo você por agredir um policial.
Isto fez eu me sentir bastante calmo porque é o que os policiais dizem na
televisão e nos filmes.
Então ele disse:
— Aconselho seriamente você a entrar no banco de trás daquele carro de
polícia ali, porque se você fizer qualquer outra macaquice dessas, seu
merdinha, vou perder a paciência de verdade. Está entendido?
Caminhei em direção ao carro de polícia que estava estacionado bem
junto do portão. Ele abriu a porta de trás e eu entrei. Ele sentou-se no lugar
do motorista e fez uma chamada no seu rádio para a policial, que ainda estava
dentro da casa.
Ele disse:
— O malandrinho aqui acabou de me fazer uma gracinha, Kate. Você pode
ficar com a senhora S, enquanto levo ele até o distrito? Vou pedir ao Tony
para dar uma passada e pegar você.
Ela disse:
— Certo. Me encontro com você mais tarde.
O policial disse:
— Tudo bem, então. — E nós partimos.
O carro da polícia cheirava a plástico quente, loção pós-barba e batatas
fritas velhas.
Fiquei observando o céu enquanto íamos para o centro da cidade. Era uma
noite de céu limpo e dava para ver a Via Láctea.
Algumas pessoas acham que a Via Láctea é uma longa linha de estrelas,
mas não é. Nossa galáxia é um gigantesco disco de estrelas com milhares de
anos-luz de extensão, e o sistema solar fica em algum lugar perto da beirada
do disco.

Quando a gente olha na direção A, a 90 graus do disco, não dá para ver

muitas estrelas. Mas, quando olha na direção B, vê muito mais estrelas porque
está olhando para o corpo principal da galáxia e, como a galáxia é um disco, a
gente vê uma listra de estrelas.
E então fiquei lembrando que, por muito tempo, os cientistas ficaram
intrigados pelo fato de o céu ser escuro à noite, apesar de haver bilhões de
estrelas no universo e de necessariamente ter estrelas em todas as direções
para as quais a gente olha. Assim, o céu deveria estar totalmente iluminado
pelas estrelas, porque tem muito pouca coisa no caminho para bloquear a luz
que alcança a Terra.
Então, eles compreenderam que o universo está se expandindo, que as
estrelas estão todas se afastando muito depressa umas das outras, por causa
do Big Bang, e quanto mais longe as estrelas estão, mais rápido se movem,
algumas delas quase tão rápido quanto a velocidade da luz, que é a razão de a
luz delas nunca nos alcançar.
Eu gosto que seja assim. É algo que dá para entender dentro da cabeça da
gente, apenas olhando o céu lá em cima, à noite, e raciocinando, sem ter de
perguntar a ninguém.
E quando o universo acabar explodindo, todas as estrelas diminuirão a
velocidade, como uma bola que foi arremessada para o ar, e elas farão uma
parada e começarão a cair em direção ao centro do universo novamente. E
então nada nos impedirá de ver todas as estrelas do mundo porque estarão se
movendo na nossa direção, cada vez mais e mais rápido, e vamos saber que o
mundo vai estar chegando ao fim, e que vai ser logo, porque quando a gente
olhar para o céu à noite não haverá escuridão, apenas a luz flamejante de
bilhões e bilhões de estrelas, todas caindo.
Mas ninguém vai ver nada disso, porque não vai haver mais ninguém na
Terra para assistir. Provavelmente, as pessoas estarão extintas até lá. E
mesmo se ainda existirem pessoas, não poderão ver o espetáculo porque a
luz vai ser tão brilhante e tão quente que elas serão queimadas até a morte,
mesmo que estejam vivendo em túneis.
 19

eralmente, a gente dá aos capítulos dos livros números cardinais 1, 2, 3,

G
4, 5, 6 e assim por diante. Mas, resolvi dar a meus capítulos números primos
2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13 e assim por diante porque gosto de números primos.
É assim que você vai entender o que são números primos.
Primeiro, você escreve todos os números positivos do mundo.

Então você retira todos os números que são múltiplos de 2. Então você
retira todos os números que são múltiplos de 3. Então você retira todos os
números que são múltiplos de 4, 5, 6, 7 e assim por diante. Os números que
sobram são os números primos.
 A regra para você extrair os números primos é realmente muito simples,
mas ninguém ainda inventou uma fórmula simples para dizer a você se um
número muito grande é um número primo ou qual será o número primo a
seguir. Se um número é muito, muito grande, um computador pode levar
anos para descobrir se é um número primo.
Números primos são úteis para escrever códigos, e nos EUA eles são
considerados Material Militar Secreto e se você descobre um com mais de
cem dígitos você tem de contar à CIA e eles o compram de você por 10 mil
dólares. Mas nem por isso é uma boa forma de ganhar a vida.
Números primos são o que resta quando você já jogou fora todos os seus
semelhantes. Acho que números primos são como a vida. Eles são muito
lógicos, mas a gente nunca descobre quais são as regras, mesmo se passar o
tempo todo pensando nelas.
 23

uando cheguei ao distrito policial, me fizeram tirar os cadarços dos meus

Q
sapatos e esvaziar meus bolsos na mesa da entrada, para o caso de eu ter
alguma coisa neles que pudesse usar para me matar ou fugir ou atacar um
policial.
O sargento atrás da mesa tinha mãos muito cabeludas e havia roído tanto
as unhas que elas tinham sangrado. Isto é o que eu tinha nos meus bolsos:

1. Um canivete do exército suíço com 13 acessórios, incluindo um

descascador de fios, uma faca serrada, um palito e pinças.
2. Um pedaço de barbante.
3. Um pedaço de armação de madeira que parecia com isto
 4. Três pelotinhas de comida de rato para o Toby, meu rato.
5. Em dinheiro, 1 libra e 47 pences (composto de uma moeda de 1 libra,
uma de 20 pences, duas de 10 pences, uma de 5 e outra de 2).
6. Um clipe vermelho.
7. A chave da minha porta da frente.

Eu estava usando meu relógio e eles queriam que eu o deixasse na mesa,

mas disse que precisava ficar com meu relógio porque precisava saber
exatamente que horas eram o tempo todo. E quando eles tentaram tirá-lo de
mim, eu gritei, e eles deixaram o relógio comigo.
Eles me perguntaram se eu tinha família. Eu disse que sim. Eles me
perguntaram quem era minha família. Eu disse que tinha o Pai, mas a Mãe tinha
morrido. E eu disse que tinha também o tio Terry, mas que ele estava em
Sunderland e que ele era o irmão do Pai, e tinha meus avós também, mas três
deles estavam mortos e a avó Burton estava em casa porque ela sofria de
demência senil e achava que eu era alguém da televisão.
Então eles me perguntaram o número do telefone do Pai.
Eu disse a eles que o Pai tinha dois números, um de casa e outro que era
de um celular e eu dei os dois.
A cela da polícia era legal. Era quase um cubo perfeito, 2 metros de
comprimento por 2 metros de largura por 2 metros de altura. Continha
aproximadamente 8 metros cúbicos de ar. Havia uma pequena janela com
barras e, no lado oposto, uma porta de metal com uma comprida e estreita
portinhola junto ao chão, para passar bandejas de comida para dentro da cela
e uma portinhola mais alta, de correr, para o policial poder olhar e checar se
os prisioneiros tinham escapado ou cometido suicídio. Havia também um
banco acolchoado.
Eu estava me perguntando como é que eu ia escapar, se estivesse numa
história. Seria difícil porque as únicas coisas que eu tinha eram minhas roupas
e meus sapatos, que não tinham mais os cadarços.
Resolvi que o melhor plano era esperar por um dia de sol brilhante e então
usar meus óculos para focalizar a luz do sol em um pedaço de minha roupa e
botar fogo nela. E, então, eu poderia escapar quando vissem a fumaça e me
tirassem da cela. E, se eles não vissem a fumaça, eu poderia então mijar nas
roupas e apagar o fogo.
 Fiquei me perguntando se a senhora Shears teria dito à polícia que eu é
que tinha matado Wellington e se, quando a polícia descobrisse que tinha
mentido, ela iria para a prisão. Porque contar mentiras sobre pessoas é
considerado calúnia.
 29

cho as pessoas complicadas.

A Por duas razões principais.
A primeira razão principal é que as pessoas conversam um bocado sem
usar qualquer palavra. Siobhan diz que quando alguém levanta uma
sobrancelha, pode significar muitas coisas diferentes. Pode significar: “Quero
fazer sexo com você” e pode também significar: “Acho muito estúpido o que
você acabou de dizer.”
Siobhan também diz que se você fecha sua boca e respira ruidosamente
pelo nariz, pode significar que você está relaxado, ou que você está
aborrecido, ou que você está triste e tudo depende de quanto ar sai do seu
nariz e com que rapidez, e qual é o formato da sua boca quando você faz isto,
e do jeito como você está sentado e do que você disse exatamente antes e de
centenas de outras coisas que são também complicadas demais para decifrar
em poucos segundos.
A segunda razão principal é que as pessoas sempre conversam usando
metáforas. Aqui estão alguns exemplos de metáforas

Morri de rir.
Ela era a menina dos seus olhos.
Eles saíram do armário.
Tivemos um dia de cão.
O cachorro bateu as botas.

A palavra metáfora significa transportar alguma coisa de um lugar para

outro e vem da palavra grega μετα (que significa de um lugar para outro) e
φερειν (que significa transportar) e se usa para descrever alguma coisa
pegando uma palavra que não é para aquela coisa. Isso quer dizer que a
palavra metáfora é uma metáfora.
Acho que isso deveria ser considerado uma mentira porque um cachorro
não é como um dia e também não usa botas. E quando tento fazer uma
imagem da frase na minha cabeça, isso me confunde todo porque imaginar
uma menina dentro dos olhos de alguém não tem nada a ver com gostar
muito de alguém e isso acaba me fazendo esquecer sobre o que a pessoa
estava falando.
Meu nome é uma metáfora. Significa transportar o Cristo e vem da palavra
grega χριστοζ (que significa Jesus Cristo) e φερειν, e foi o nome dado a São
Cristóvão porque ele transportou Cristo para atravessar o rio.
Isso faz a gente imaginar como ele era chamado antes de carregar Cristo
para atravessar o rio. Mas ele não era chamado de nada porque essa história é
apócrifa, o que significa que também é uma mentira.
A Mãe costumava dizer que tudo isso significava que Christopher era um
nome bonito porque era uma história sobre uma criatura bondosa e
prestativa, mas eu não quero que meu nome signifique uma história sobre
uma criatura bondosa e prestativa. Eu quero que meu nome signifique eu.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
nevertheless, it is a true picture. Devoti’s style was indeed the “end
of an era”; he had no successor. Turveydrop, the immortal
Turveydrop himself, was not even an imitator. These old schools and
teachers march before my mind’s eye to-day; very vivid it all is to
me, though the last of them, and perhaps all those they tried to
teach, have passed away. Children who went to Mme. Granet and
Mme. Delarouelle and Dr. Hawks and all the other schools of that
day, sent their daughters, a decade or two later, to Mme. Desrayoux.
Now she is gone and many of the daughters gone also. And it is left
to one old lady to dig out the past, and recall, possibly to no one but
herself, New Orleans schools, teachers and scholars of seventy
years ago.
 III
BOARDING SCHOOL IN THE FORTIES

I wonder if the parents of the present do not sometimes contrast

the fashionable schools in which their daughters are being educated
with the fashionable schools to which their aged mothers, mayhap
grandmothers, were sent sixty and more years ago? Among my
possessions that I keep—according to the dictum of my
grandchildren—“for sentimental sake,” is a much-worn “Scholar’s
Companion,” which they scorn to look at when I bring it forth, and
explain it to be the best speller that ever was; and a bent, much
overworked crochet needle of my schooldays, for we worked with
our hands as well as with our brains. The boarding school to which I
refer was not unique, but a typical New England seminary of the
forties. It was both fashionable and popular, but the young ladies
were not, as now, expected to appear at a 6 o’clock dinner in a low
neck (oh, my!) gown.
Lately, passing through the now much expanded city to which I
was sent, such a young girl, on a sailing ship from New Orleans to
New York in the early spring of 1847, I spent a half hour walking on
Crown Street looking for No. 111. It was not there, not a trace of the
building of my day left; nor was one, so far as I know, of the girls, my
old schoolmates, left; all three of the dear, painstaking teachers
sleeping in the old cemetery, at rest at last were they. Every blessed
one lives in my memory, bright and young, patient and middle-aged
—all are here to beguile my twilight hours....
The school routine was simple and precise, especially the latter.
We had duties outside the schoolroom, the performance of which
was made pleasant and acceptable, as when the freshly laundered
clothes were stacked in neat little piles on the long table of the yellow
room on Thursdays, ready for each girl to carry to her own room.
There were also neat little stacks on each girl’s desk, of personal
articles requiring repairs, buttons to replace, holes to patch,
stockings to darn, and in the schoolroom on Thursday afternoons—
how some of us hated the work!—it was examined and passed upon
before we were dismissed. The long winter evenings we were
assembled in the library and one of the teachers read to us. I
remember one winter we had “Guy Mannering” and “Quentin
Durward,” Sir Walter Scott’s lovely stories. We girls were expected to
bring some work to occupy our fingers while listening to the
readings, with the comments and explanations that illuminated
obscure portions we might not comprehend.
There was an old-fashioned “high boy” (haut bois) in the library, in
the capacious drawers of which were unmade garments for the
missionary box. Woe unto the young lady who had no knitting,
crocheting or hemstitching of her own to do! She could sew on red
flannel for the little Hottentots! After hymn singing Sunday afternoons
there was reading from some suitably saintly book. We had “Keith’s
Evidences of Prophecy” (I have not seen a copy of that much-read
and laboriously explained volume for more than sixty years). The
tension of our minds produced by “prophecy” was mitigated once in
a while by two goody-goody books, “Lamton Parsonage” and “Amy
Herbert,” both, no doubt, long out of print.
There also were stately walks to be taken twice a day for
recreation; walks down on the “Strand,” or some back street that led
away from college campus and flirtatious students. Our school
happened to be too near the college green, by the way. We marched
in couples, a teacher to lead who had eyes both before and behind,
and a teacher similarly equipped to follow. With all these precautions
we—some of us were pretty—were often convulsed beyond bounds
when “we met by chance, the only way,” on the very backest street,
a procession of college fellows on mischief bent, marching two and
two, just like us. In bad weather we were shod with what were called
“gums” and wrapped in coats long and shaggy and weighing a ton.
Waterproofs were a later invention. Wet or dry, cold or warm, those
exercises had to be taken to keep us in good physical condition. I
must mention in this connection that no matter what ailed us, in
stomach or back, head or foot, we were dosed with hot ginger tea. I
do not remember ever seeing a doctor in the house, or knowing of
one being summoned. The girls hated that ginger tea, so no doubt
many an incipient headache was not reported.
With the four spinsters (we irreverently called No. 111 Old Maids’
Hall) who lived in the house, there were scraggly, baldheaded,
spectacled teachers from outside—a monsieur who read Racine and
Molière with us and taught us j’aime, tu aime, which he could safely
do, the snuffy old man; a fatherly sort of Turveydrop dancing master,
who cracked our feet with his fiddle bow; a drawing master, who,
because he sometimes led his class on sketching trips up Hillhouse
Avenue, was immensely popular, and every one of us wanted to take
drawing lessons. We did some water colors, too; some of us had not
one particle of artistic talent. I was one of that sort, but I achieved a
Baltimore oriole, which, years after, my admiring husband, who also
had no artistic taste, had framed and “hung on the line” in our hall.
Perhaps some Yankee may own it now, for during the war they took
everything else we had, and surely a brilliant Baltimore oriole did not
escape their rapacity!
Solid English branches were taught by the dear spinsters. We did
not skin cats and dissect them. There was no class in anatomy, but
there was a botany class, and we dissected wild flowers, which is a
trifle more ladylike. Our drilling in chirography was something to
marvel at in these days when the young people affect such
complicated and involved handwriting that is not easily decipherable.
And grammar! I now slip up in both grammar and rhetoric, but I have
arrived at the failing age. We spent the greater part of a session
parsing Pope’s “Essay on Man,” and at the closing of that book I
think we knew the whole thing by heart. Discipline was, so to say,
honorary. There were rules as to study and practice hours, and
various other things. Saturday morning, after the “Collect of the day”
and prayers, when we were presumed to be in a celestial frame of
mind, each girl reported her infringement of rules—if she was
delinquent, and she generally was. That system served to make us
more truthful and conscientious than some of us might have been
under a different training.
 It was expressly stipulated that no money be furnished the pupils.
A teacher accompanied us to do necessary shopping and used her
discretion in the selection. If one of us expressed the need of new
shoes her entire stock was inspected, and if a pair could be repaired
it was done and the purchase postponed. Now, bear in mind, this
was not a cheap, second rate school, but one of the best known and
most fashionable. There were several young ladies from the South
among the twenty or so boarders. The Northern girls were from the
prominent New York families—Shermans, Kirbys, Phalens,
Pumpellys and Thorns. This was before the fashionables of to-day
came to the fore.
Speaking of reporting our delinquencies, we knew quite well that it
was against the custom, at least, to bring reading matter into the
school. There was a grand, large library of standard works of merit at
our free disposal. In some way “Jane Eyre” (just published) was
smuggled in and we were secretly reading it by turns. How the
spinsters found it out we never knew, but they always found out
everything, so we were scarcely surprised one Saturday morning to
receive a lecture on the pernicious character of the book “Jane
Eyre,” so unlike (and alas! so much more interesting than) Amy
Herbert, with her missionary basket, her coals and her flannel
petticoats. We were questioned, not by wholesale, but individually, if
we had the book? If we had read the book? The first two or three in
the row could reply in the negative, but as interrogations ran down
the line toward the guilty ones they were all greatly relieved when
one brave girl replied, “Yes, ma’am, I am almost through, please let
me finish it.” Then “Jane” vanished from our possession.
When the Church Sewing Society met at our house, certain girls
who were sufficiently advanced in music to afford entertainment to
the guests were summoned to the parlor to play and sing, and
incidentally have a lemonade and a jumble. I was the star performer
(had I not been a pupil of Cripps, Dr. Clapp’s organist, since I was
able to reach the pedal with my foot?). My overture of “La Dame
Blanche” was quite a masterpiece, but my “Battle of Prague” was
simply stunning. The “advance,” the “rattle of musketry,” the “beating
of drums” (did you ever see the music score?) I could render with
such force that the dear, busy ladies almost jumped from their seats.
There were two Kentucky girls with fine voices also invited to
entertain the guests. Alas! our fun came to an end. On one occasion
when I ended the “Battle of Prague” with a terrific bang, there was an
awful moment of silence, when one of the ladies sneezed with such
unexpected force that her false teeth careered clear across the
room! Not one of the guests saw it, or was aware that she quietly
walked over and replaced them, but we naughty girls were so brimful
of fun that we exploded with laughter. Nothing was said to us of the
unfortunate contretemps, but the musical programmes were
discontinued.
College boys helped to make things lively for us, though we did
not have bowing acquaintance with one of them. Valentines poured
in to us; under doors and over fences they rained. The dear
spinsters laughed over them with us. Thanksgiving morning, when
the front door was opened for the first time, and we were assembled
in the hall ready to march to 11 o’clock church service, a gaunt,
skinny, starved-to-death turkey was found suspended to the door
knob, conspicuously tied by a broad red ribbon, with a Thanksgiving
greeting painted on, so “one who ran could read.” No doubt a good
many had read and run, for there had been hours allowed them. The
dear spinsters were so mortified and shocked that we girls had not
the courage to laugh.
By reason of my distance from home, reached by a long voyage
on a sailing ship—the first steamer service between New York and
New Orleans was in the autumn of 1848, and the Crescent City was
the pioneer steamer—I spent the vacations under the benign
influence of the teachers, always the only girl left, but busy and
happy, enjoying all the privileges of a parlor boarder. I still have a
book full of written directions for knitting and crocheting, and making
all sorts of old-timey needle books and pincushions, the initial
directions dated 1846, largely the collection and record of more than
one long summer vacation at that New England school. What girl of
to-day would submit to such training and routine? What boarding
school, seminary or college is to-day conducted on such lines? Not
one that you or I know. The changes in everything, in every walk of
life, from the simple in my day and generation to the complicated of
the present, sets me to moralizing. Like all old people who are not
able to take an active interest in the present, I live in the past, where
the disappointments and heartaches, for surely we must have had
our share, are forgotten. We old people live in the atmosphere of a
day dead—and gone—and glorified!
 IV
PICAYUNE DAYS

The first time I ever saw a penny was at school in Yankeeland in

1847. It was given me to pay the man for bringing me a letter from
the postoffice—10 cents postage, 1 cent delivery, in those days.
People had to get their mail at the office. There was no free delivery.
Certain neighborhoods of spinsters, however—the college town was
full of such—secured the services of a lame, halt or blind man to
bring their letters from the office to their door once a day for the
stipend of a penny each.
There was no coin in circulation of less value than a picayune
where was my home. A picayune, which represented so little value
that a miser was called picayunish, at the same time represented
such a big value that we children felt rich when we had one tied in
the corner of our handkerchief. At the corner of Chartres and Canal
Streets was a tiny soda fountain, where one could get a glass of
soda for a picayune—or mead. We children liked mead. I never see
it now, but, as I recall, it was a thick, honey, creamy drink. We must
have preferred it because it seemed so much more for a picayune
than the frothy, effervescent, palish soda water. It was a great lark to
go with Pa and take my glass of mead, while he ordered ginger
syrup (of all things!) with his soda. The changing years bring gold
mines, greenbacks, tariffs, labor exactions and nouveaux riches, and
a penny now buys about what a picayune did in my day. One pays a
penny for ever so big a newspaper to-day. A picayune was the price
of a small sheet in my time.
 Market Doorway.

Many of us must remember the colored marchandes who walked

the street with trays, deftly balanced on their heads, arms akimbo,
calling out their dainties, which were in picayune piles on the trays—
six small celesto figs, or five large blue ones, nestling on fig leaves;
lovely popcorn tic tac balls made with that luscious “open kettle”
sugar, that dear, fragrant brown sugar no one sees now. Pralines
with the same sugar; why, we used it in our coffee. A few years ago,
visiting dear Mrs. Ida Richardson, I reveled in our breakfast coffee. “I
hope you preserve your taste for brown sugar coffee?” she said. I
fairly jumped at the treat.
But a marchande is passing up the street, and if I am a little girl, I
beg a picayune for a praline; if I am an old lady, I invest a picayune
in a leaf with six figues célestes. Mme. Chose—I don’t give any more
definite name, for it is a sub rosa venture on her part—had a soirée
last night. Madame buys her chapeaux of Olympe, and her toilettes
from Pluche or Ferret, and if her home is way down, even below
Esplanade Street, where many Creoles live, she is thrifty and frugal.
So this morning a chocolate-colored marchande, who usually vends
picayune bouquets of violets from madame’s parterre, has her tray
filled with picayune stacks of broken nougat pyramid and candied
orange and macaroons very daintily arranged on bits of tissue paper.
I vividly recall encountering way down Royal Street, where no one
was loitering to see me, this chocolate marchande, and recognizing
the delicacies of a ball the previous night. I was on my way to call on
Mrs. Garnet Duncan, the dear, delightful woman who was such a
gourmande, and I knew how delicious were those sweets; no one
could excel a Creole madame in this confection. So I invested a few
picayunes in some of the most attractive, carrying off to my sweet
friend what I conveniently could. How she did enjoy them! And how
she complained I had not brought more! The mesdames of that date
are gone; gone also, no doubt, are the marchandes they sent forth. It
was a very picayunish sort of business, but labor did not count, for
one was not paying $20 a month for the reluctant services of a
chocolate lady.
Then again, in the early morning, when one, en papilottes, came
down to breakfast, listless and “out of sorts,” the chant of the cream
cheese woman would be heard. A rush to the door with a saucer for
a cheese, a tiny, heart-shaped cheese, a dash of cream poured from
a claret bottle over it—all this for a picayune! How nice and
refreshing it was. What a glorious addition to the breakfast that
promised to pall on one’s appetite.
Picayune was the standard coin at the market. I wonder what is
now? Soup bone was un escalin (two picayunes), but one paid for
the soup vegetables, a bit of cabbage, a leek, a sprig of parsley, a
tiny carrot, a still tinier turnip, all tied in a slender package. A cornet
of fresh gumbo filé, a bunch of horse-radish roots, a little sage,
parsley, herbs of every sort in packages and piles, a string of dried
grasshoppers for the mocking bird, “un picayun,” the Indian or black
woman squatting on the banquette at the old French Market would
tell you.
A picayune was the smallest coin the richly appareled madame or
the poor market negro could put in the collection box as she paused
on her way at the Cathedral to tell her beads. There was no occasion
for the priest to rebuke his flock for niggardliness. They may have
been picayunish, but not to the extent of the congregation of one of
the largest Catholic churches I wot of to-day, where the fathers were
so tired counting pennies that it was announced from the pulpit: “No
more pennies must be put in the box. We spend hours every week
counting and stacking pennies, and it is a shocking waste of time. If
you are so destitute that you can’t afford at least a nickel to your
church, come to the vestry, after mass, and we will look into your
needs and give you the relief the church always extends to her poor.”
The shabby old negro, with her heavy market basket, returning
home, no doubt needing the prayers of her patron saint or some
other churchly office, filched the picayune from the carefully counted
market money. I know, no matter how carefully my mother doled the
market fund to John, he always contrived to secure a picayune out of
it, and for no saint, either, but for old Coffee-stand Palmyre.
Do not we old ladies remember the picayune dolls of our
childhood? The wooden jointed dolls, the funny little things we had to
play with, every feature, even hair and yellow earrings, painted on
little, smooth bullet heads. They could be made to sit down and to
crook their arms, but no ingenuity could make them stand a-loney.
How we loved those little wooden dolls! We do not see a pauper
child, not even a poor little blackie, with a picayune doll nowadays. I
really believe we—I am talking of old ladies now—were happier, and
had more fun with our picayune family than the little girls of the
present day have with their $10 dolls, with glass eyes that are sure
to fall out and long curls that are sure to tangle. We had no fears
about the eyes and hair of our picayunes.
The picayune, whose memory I invoke, was a Spanish coin,
generally worn pretty thin and often having a small hole in it. I
remember my ambition was to accumulate enough picayunes to
string on a thread for an ornament. It is unnecessary to say that in
those thrifty days my ambition was not gratified. It is more than fifty
years since I have seen one of those old 6¼ cent picayunes. I have
a stiff, wooden corset board that I sometimes take out to show to my
granddaughter when I find her “stooping,” that she may see the
instrument that made grandma so straight. I would like to have a
picayune to add to my very limited collection of relics. They
flourished at the same era and have together vanished from our
homes and shops.
We all must have known some “picayune people.” There was a
family living near us who owned and occupied a large, fine home on
St. Joseph Street, while we and the Grimshaws and Beins lived in
rented houses near by. They had, besides, a summer home “over
the lake” (and none of us had!). Often, on Mondays, a fish, or a quart
of shrimp, or something else in the “over the lake” line, was sent to
one of us, for sale. We used to laugh over the littleness of the thing.
A quart of shrimp for a picayune was cheap and tempting, but none
of us cared to buy of our rich neighbor. The climax came when an
umbrella went the rounds for inspection. It was for raffle! Now,
umbrellas, like pocket handkerchiefs, are always useful and never go
out of fashion. With one accord, we declined chances in the
umbrella.
I feel I am, for the fun of the thing, dragging forth a few skeletons
from closets, but I do not ticket them, so no harm is done. In fact, if I
ever knew, I have long since forgotten the name to tack onto the
umbrella skeleton. And the fashionable madame who sent out on the
streets what a lady we knew called the “perquisites” of her soirée
supper has left too many well-known descendants. I would scorn to
ticket the skeleton of that frugal and thrifty madame. There are no
more umbrellas for a picayunish skeleton to raffle, no more such
delicious sweets for the madame to stack into picayune piles, and,
alack-a-day! no more picayunes, either.
 V
DOMESTIC SCIENCE SEVENTY YEARS AGO

Housekeeping is vastly simplified since the days when my mother

washed her teacups and spoons every morning. I love the old way;
however, I do not practise it. If my grandchildren were to see the little
wooden piggin brought me on a tray after breakfast, and see me
wash the silver and glass they would think grandma has surely lost
her mind. That purely domestic housewifely habit lasted long after
my mother had passed away. It still is the vogue in many a New
England household, but no doubt is among the lost virtues South.
When I was a young lady and occasionally (oh, happy times!) spent
a few days with the Slocombs, I always saw Mrs. Slocomb and her
aged mother, dear old Mrs. Cox, who tremblingly loved to help, pass
the tea things through their own delicate hands every morning. So it
was at Mrs. Leonard Matthews’, and so it was in scores of wealthy
homes.
Though we had ever so many servants, our family being a large
one, my semi-invalid mother, who rarely left her home and never
made visits, did a thousand little household duties that are now, even
in families where only one or two servants are kept, entirely ignored
by the ladies of the house. After a dinner party or an evening
entertainment, and my father was hospitably inclined—much beyond
his means—my mother passed all the silver, glass and china through
her own delicate fingers, and we did not, as I recall after all this lapse
of years, have anything of superlative value. It was not a matter of
thrift or economy on her part, but a matter of course; everybody did
the same.
After a visit to a New England family several years ago I was
telling a Creole friend of the lovely old India china that had been in
daily use over three generations. The reply was: “Oh, but they did
not have a Christophe.” No doubt they had had several Christophes,
but they never had a chance to wash those valuable cups. In the
days of long ago housewives did not have negligées with floating
ribbons and smart laces. They had calico gowns that a splash of
water could not ruin.

A New Orleans Yard and Cistern.

 Household furniture—I go back full seventy years—was simple
and easily cared for. Carpets were generally what was known as
“three-ply.” I don’t see them now, but in places, on humble floors, I
see imitation Brussels or some other counterfeit. The first carpet I
ever saw woven in one piece, like all the rugs so plentiful now (and
that was at a much later date) was on the parlor floor of the
Goodman house, on Toulouse Street, the home so full of bright
young girls I so loved to visit. There was no concern to take away
carpets to be cleaned and stored in the summer. Carpets were taken
to some vacant lot and well beaten. The neutral green on Canal
Street, green and weedy it was, too, was a grand place to shake
carpets; no offense given if one carried them beyond Claiborne
Street where were no pretentious houses. Then those carpets were
thickly strewn with tobacco leaves, rolled up and stored in the garret,
if you had one. Every house did not boast of that convenience.
Curtains were not satin damask. At the Mint when Joe Kennedy
was superintendent, and his family were fashionable people, their
parlor curtains were some red cotton stuff, probably what is known
as turkey red; there was a white and red-figured border; they were
looped over gilt rods meant to look like spears and muskets, in
deference, I suppose, to the military side of that government
building, for there were sentinels and guards stationed around about
that gave the whole concern a most imposing and military air.
I remember at the Breedloves’ home there were net curtains
(probably mosquito net), with a red border. They were thought rather
novel and stylish. There were no madras, no Irish point, no
Nottingham curtains even, so one did not have a large variety to
choose from.
People had candelabras, and some elaborate affairs—they called
them girandoles—to hold candles; they had heavy crystal drops that
tinkled and scintillated and were prismatic and on the whole were
rather fine. The candles in those gorgeous stands and an oil lamp on
the inevitable center-table were supposed to furnish abundance of
light for any occasion. When my sister dressed for a function she
had two candles to dress by (so did I ten years later!), and two dusky
maids to follow her all about, and hold them at proper points so the
process of the toilet could be satisfactorily accomplished. Two
candles without shades—nobody had heard of shades—were
sufficient for an ordinary tea table. I was a grown girl, fresh from
school, when I saw the first gaslight in a private house, at Mrs.
Slocomb’s, on St. Charles Street. People sewed, embroidered, read
and wrote and played chess evenings by candlelight, and except a
few near-sighted people and the aged no one used glasses. There
was not an oculist (a specialist, I mean) in the whole city.
Every woman had to sew. There were well-trained seamstresses
in every house; no “ready-mades,” no machines. Imagine the fine
hand-sewing on shirt bosoms, collars and cuffs. I can hear my
mother’s voice now, “Be careful in the stitching of that bosom; take
up two and skip four,” which I early learned meant the threads of the
linen. What a time there was when the boys grew to tailor-cut
pantaloons! Cut by a tailor, sewed at home, what a to-do there was
when Charley had his first tail-coat; he could not sit on the tails, they
were too short, so he made an uproar.
I recall also how I cried when sister’s old red and black “shot silk”
dress was made over for me, and I thought I was going to be so fine
(I was nine years old then and was beginning to “take notice”). The
goods fell short, and I had to have a black, low neck, short-sleeve
waist. In vain I was told it was velvet and ever so stylish and
becoming. I knew better. However, that abbreviated dress and those
abbreviated tails did duty at the dancing school.
But we have wandered from house furnishings to children’s
clothes. We will go upstairs now and take a look at the ponderous
four-poster bed, with its awful tester top, that covered it like a flat
roof. That tester was ornamented with a wall paper stuff, a wreath of
impossible red and yellow roses, big as saucers, stamped on it, and
four strands of same roses reaching to the four corners of the
monstrosity. The idea of lying, with a raging fever or a splitting
headache, under such a canopy! However, there were “swells” (there
always are “swells”) who had testers covered with silk.
I hear a rumor that furniture covered with horse-hair cloth is about
to come to the fore again. Everybody in my early day had black
haircloth furniture; maybe that was one reason red curtains were
preferred, for furniture covered with black haircloth was fearfully
funereal. However, as no moth devoured it, dust did not rest on its
slick, shiny surface, and it lasted forever, it had its advantages. Every
household possessed a haircloth sofa, with a couple of hard, round
pillows of the same, the one too slippery to nap on and the others
regular break-necks.
 Door in the French Market.

Butler’s pantry! My stars! Who ever heard of a butler’s pantry, and

sinks, and running water, and faucets inside houses? The only
running water was a hydrant in the yard; the only sink was the gutter
in the yard; the sewer was the gutter in the street, so why a butler’s
pantry? To be sure there was a cistern for rainwater, and jars like
those Ali Baba’s forty thieves hid themselves in. Those earthen jars
were replenished from the hydrant, and the muddy river water
“settled” by the aid of almond hulls or alum.
Of course, every house had a storeroom, called pantry, to hold
supplies. It was lined with shelves, but the only light and air was
afforded by a half-moon aperture cut into a heavy batten door. We
had wire safes on the back porch and a zinc-lined box for the ice—
nothing else—wrapped in a gray blanket, gray, I presume, on the
same principle we children preferred pink cocoanut cakes—they kept
clean longer than the white! Ice was in general use but very
expensive. It was brought by ship from the North, in hogsheads.
For the kitchen there were open fireplaces with a pot hanging from
a crane, skillets and spiders. We don’t even hear the names of those
utensils now. By and by an enterprising housewife ventured on a
cook stove. I have a letter written by one such, dated in New Orleans
in 1840, in which she descants on the wonders achieved by her
stove. “Why, Susan, we baked three large cakes in it at one time.” In
the old way it required a spider for each cake.
There were no plated knives, but steel, and they had to be daily
scoured with “plenty brickdust on your knife board,” but those knives
cut like razors. There was no bric-a-brac, few pictures, nothing
ornamental in the parlors. One house I remember well had a Bunker
Hill monument, made, I guess, of stucco, and stuck all over with gay
seashells; it was perhaps 25 or 30 inches high; it made a most
commanding appearance on the center-table. When my sister made
a tiresomely long call at that house it amused me to try to count the
shells.
An old gentleman, called “Old Jimmie Dick” when I remember him,
a rich cotton broker (the firm was Dick & Hill), made a voyage to
Europe, and brought home some Apollos, and Cupids, and
Mercuries, statues in the “altogether,” for his parlor. Jimmie Dick was
a bachelor, and lived on Canal Street, near Carondelet or Baronne,
and had a charming spinster niece keeping house for him, who was
so shocked when she saw the figures mounted on pedestals (they
were glaring white marble and only a trifle under life size) that she
immediately made slips of brown holland and enveloped them,
leaving only the heads exposed! I never went to that house but the
one time when we surprised her in the act of robing her visitors!
I speak of houses that I visited with my grown sister. It was not
comme il faut for a young lady to be seen too frequently on the street
or to make calls alone. Mother was an invalid and made no visits.
Father accompanied sister on ceremonious occasions. I was
pressed into service when no one else was available. I feel I am
going way back beyond the recollection of my readers, but some of
the grandmothers, too old, mayhap, to do their own reading, can
recall just such a life, a life that will never be lived again.