Riding out Ursuline Avenue you see, flying over the paddock and immense grandstand of the world-renowned race-track, the colors of the Crescent City Jockey Club gently floating in the breeze; the grassy carpet of the inclosure, encircled by the red-shale turf, around which the lithe-limbed thoroughbreds dash for the wire in incommunicable antagony, exerting every fibre as if conscious of the triumph of a victory. Here may be seen during the winter meet the most noted race-horses, trainers, jockeys, judges, bookmakers, plungers, touts, and race-course patronage of the modern turf, some backing the favorites, while others (experienced handicappers) play the long shots. After the races, “Farbachers” café on Royal Street, a famous resort for the turf element, was daily the evening scene of extravagant gayety, particularly by those patrons whose plunging had been favored by fortune. It had occurred to Gautrell, himself of French extraction, that he had often heard of New Orleans “gumbo” as being a dish _par excellence_; having sauntered into this famous hostelry, “okra gumbo” for three was ordered. Unlike “chilli-concarni,” the staff of life of the Mexicans, “okra gumbo,” though prepared from okra, meats, and vegetables, is devoid of cayenne pepper flavor. Clark, who had evidently never sampled “tobasco sauce,” remarked that catsup came in very small bottles in New Orleans, at the same time drawing the stopper and pouring the fiery liquid over his “gumbo” like so much “Worcestershire.” As the tears filled Clark’s eyes, he said, “Fellows, if this is what you call _par excellence_, go to it, but none of it for mine,” then, with a mouthful of ice, signalled the waiter. “Waiter,” he said, “kindly remove this bonfire and bring me a pineapple-frappée quick.” “Gumbo” was relished by the balance of the party, but Clark could never be induced to give it another trial. The pool-rooms of the races along Royal Street are attractive halls of amusement; bookmakers screened from the patrons as the clerks of a bank; blackboards, on which appear the names of the horses, jockeys, weight carried, odds, and pedigrees, decorate the walls, everything being conducted with the same business decorum and excitement attending the stock operations of the New York “curb.” The telegraph ticks off the condition of the weather, the arrival of the horses at the post, the start, their position at the quarter, the half, the three-quarters, in the stretch, and under the wire, as a well-trained voice in the language of the turf calls off the results. Here one may play the races of any “meet” in the United States, lacking only in the excitement of seeing the horses dashing for the winning wire.