stars, amid the perfume of gardens and caressed by the cool night breeze,
we made our entry into the village of St. Martinville--the Little Paris,
the oasis in the desert.

My father ordered Julien [the coachman] to stop at the best inn. He turned
two or three corners and stopped near the bayou [Teche] just beside the
bridge, before a house of the strangest aspect possible. There seemed
first to have been built a _rez-de-chaussée_ house of ordinary size, to
which had been hastily added here a room, there a cabinet, a balcony,
until the "White Pelican"--I seem to see it now--was like a house of
cards, likely to tumble before the first breath of wind. The host's name
was Morphy. He came forward, hat in hand, a pure-blooded American, but
speaking French almost like a Frenchman. In the house all was comfortable
and shining with cleanness. Madame Morphy took us to our room, adjoining
papa's ["tou ta côté de selle de papa"], the two looking out, across the
veranda, upon the waters of the Teche.

After supper my father proposed a walk. Madame Morphy showed us, by its
lights, in the distance, a theater!

"They are playing, this evening, 'The Barber of Seville.'"

We started on our walk, moving slowly, scanning the houses and listening
to the strains of music that reached us from the distance. It seemed but a
dream that at any moment might vanish. On our return to the inn, papa
threw his letters upon the table and began to examine their addresses.

"To whom will you carry the first letter, papa?" I asked.

"To the Baron du Clozel," he replied. "I have already met him in New