XXIII.

Leave New-Orleans--The Mississippi--Scenery--Evening on

the water--Scenes on the deck of a steamer--Passengers--

Plantations--Farm-houses--Catholic college--Convent of

the Sacred Heart--Caged birds--Donaldsonville--The first

highland--Baton Rouge--Its appearance--Barracks--Scenery

--Squatters--Fort Adams--Way passengers--Steamer.

Once more I am floating upon the "Father of rivers." New-Orleans, with

its crowd of "mingled nations", is seen indistinctly in the distance. We

are now doubling a noble bend in the river, which will soon hide the

city from our sight; but scenes of rural enchantment are opening before

us as we advance, which will amply and delightfully repay us for its

absence.

What a splendid panorama of opulence and beauty is now spread out around

us! Sublimity is wanting to make the painting perfect--but its

picturesque effect is unrivalled.

Below us a few miles, indistinctly seen through the haze, a dense forest

of masts, and here and there a tower, designate the emporium of

commerce--the key of the mighty west. The banks are lined and ornamented

with elegant mansions, displaying, in their richly adorned grounds, the

wealth and taste of their possessors; while the river, now moving

onward like a golden flood, reflecting the mellow rays of the setting

sun, is full of life. Vessels of every size are gliding in all

directions over its waveless bosom, while graceful skiffs dart merrily

about like white-winged birds. Huge steamers are dashing and thundering

by, leaving long trains of wreathing smoke in their rear. Carriages

filled with ladies and attended by gallant horsemen, enliven the smooth

road along the Levee; while the green banks of the Levee itself are

covered with gay promenaders. A glimpse through the trees now and then,

as we move rapidly past the numerous villas, detects the piazzas, filled

with the young, beautiful, and aged of the family, enjoying the rich

beauty of the evening, and of the objects upon which my own eyes rest

with admiration.

The scene has changed. The moon rides high in the east, while the

western star hangs trembling in the path of the sun. Innumerable lights

twinkle along the shores, or flash out from some vessel as we glide

rapidly past. How exhilarating to be upon the water by moonlight! But a

snow-white sail, a graceful barque, and a woodland lake--with a calm,

clear, moonlight, sleeping upon it like a blessing--must be marshalled

for poetical effect. There is nothing of that here. Quiet and romance

are lost in sublimity, if not in grandeur. The great noise of rushing

waters--the deep-toned booming of the steamer--the fearful rapidity with

which we are borne past the half-obscured objects on shore and in the

stream--the huge columns of black smoke rolling from the mouths of the

gigantic chimneys, and spangled with showers of sparks, flying like

trains of meteors shooting through the air; while a proud consciousness

of the power of the dark hull beneath your feet, which plunges,

thundering onward--a thing of majesty and life--adds to the majesty and

wonder of the time.

The passengers have descended to the cabin; some to turn in, a few to

read, but more to play at the ever-ready card-table. The pilot (as the

helmsman is here termed) stands in his lonely wheel-house, comfortably

enveloped in his blanket-coat--the hurricane deck is deserted, and the

hands are gathered in the bows, listening to the narration of some

ludicrous adventure of recent transaction in the city of hair-breadth

escapes. Now and then a laugh from the merry auditors, or a loud roar

from some ebony-cheeked fireman, as he pitches his wood into the gaping

furnace, breaks upon the stillness of night, startling the echoes along

the shores. What beings of habit we are! How readily do we accustom

ourselves to circumstances! The deep trombone of the steam-pipe--the

regular splash of the paddles--and the incessant rippling of the water

eddying away astern, as our noble vessel flings it from her sides, no

longer affect the senses, unless it may be to lull them into a repose

well meant for contemplation. They are now no longer auxiliaries to the

scene--habit has made them a part of it: and I can pace the deck with my

mind as free and undisturbed as though I were in a lonely boat, upon

"the dark blue sea", with no sound but the beating of my own heart, to

break the silence. A few short hours have passed, and the grander

characters of the scene are mellowed down, by their familiarity with my

senses, into calm and quiet loneliness.

Having secured a berth in one corner of the spacious cabin, where I

could draw the rich crimsoned curtains around me, and with book or pen

pass my time somewhat removed from the bustle, and undisturbed by the

constant passing of the restless passengers, I began this morning to

look about me upon my fellow-travellers, seeking familiar faces, or

scanning strange ones, by Lavater's doubtful rules.

Our passengers are a strange medley, not only representing every state

and territory washed by this great river, but nearly every Atlantic and

trans-Atlantic state and nation. In the cabin are the merchants and

planters of the "up country;" and on deck, emigrants, return-boatmen,

&c. &c. I may say something more of them hereafter, but not at present,

as the scenery through which we are passing is too attractive to keep me

longer below. So, to the deck. We are now about sixty miles above

New-Orleans, and the shores have presented, the whole distance, one

continued line of noble mansions, some of them princely and magnificent,

intermingled, at intervals, with humbler farm-houses.

I think I have remarked, in a former letter, that the plantations along

the river extend from the Levee to the swamps in the rear; the distance

across the belt of land being, from the irregular encroachment of the

marshes, from one to two or three miles. These plantations have been,

for a very long period, under cultivation for the production of sugar

crops. As the early possessor of large tracts of land had sons to

settle, they portioned off parallelograms to each; which, to combine the

advantages of exportation and wood, extended from the river to the

flooded forest in the rear. These, in time, portioned off to their

children, while every occupant of a tract erected his dwelling at the

head of his domain, one or two hundred yards from the river. Other

plantations retain their original dimensions, crowned, on the borders of

the river, with noble mansions, embowered in the evergreen foliage of

the dark-leaved orange and lemon trees. The shores, consequently,

present, from the lofty deck of a steamer,--from which can be had an

extensive prospect of the level country--a very singular appearance.

Farm-houses thickly set, or now and then separated by a prouder

structure, line the shores with tasteful parterres and shady trees

around them; while parallel lines of fence, commencing at these

cottages, frequently but a few rods apart, extend away into the

distance, till the numerous lines dwindle apparently to a point, and

present the appearance of radii diverging from one common centre. A

planter thus may have a plantation a league in length, though not a

furlong in breadth. The regularity of these lines, the flatness of the

country, and the _fac simile_ farm-houses, render the scenery in general

rather monotonous; though some charming spots, that might have been

stolen from Paradise, fully atone for the wearisome character of the

rest. We have passed several Catholic churches, prettily situated,

surrounded by the white monuments of the dead. On our right, the lofty

walls of a huge edifice, just completed, and intended for a university,

rear themselves in the midst of a vast plain, once an extensive sugar

plantation. This embryo institution is under state patronage. It is a

noble brick building, advantageously situated for health, beauty, and

convenience; and calculated, from its vast size, to accommodate a large

number of students. It is to be of a sectarian character, devoted, I

understand, to the interest of the Roman church.

A mile above, the towers and crosses of a pile of buildings, half hidden

by a majestic grove of noble forest trees, attract the attention of the

traveller. They are the convent du Sacre Coeur,--the nursery of the

fair daughters of Louisiana. There are two large buildings, exclusive of

the chapel and the residence of the officiating priest. The site is

eminently beautiful, and, compared with the general tameness of the

scenery in this region, romantic. A padre, in his long black gown, is

promenading the Levee, and the windows of the convent are relieved by

the presence of figures, which, the spy-glass informs us, are those of

the fair prisoners; who, perhaps with many a sigh, are watching the

rapid motion of our boat, with its busy, bustling scene on board,

contrasting it with their incarcerated state, probably inducing

reflections of a melancholy cast, with ardent aspirations for the "wings

of a dove."

The education of females is well attended to in this state; though the

peculiar doctrines of the Roman Catholic church are inculcated with

their tasks.

The villages of Plaquemine and Donaldsonville, the latter formerly the

seat of government, are pleasant, quiet, and rural. The latter is

distinguished by a dilapidated state-house, which lifts itself above the

humbler dwellings around it, and adds much to the importance and beauty

of the town in the eye of the traveller as he sails past. But the

streets of the village are solitary; and closed stores and deserted

taverns add to their loneliness. Between New-Orleans and Baton Rouge, a

distance of one hundred and seventeen miles, the few villages upon the

river all partake, more or less, of this humble and dilapidated

character. Baton Rouge is now in sight, a few miles above. As we

approach it the character of the scene changes. Hills once more relieve

the eye, so long wearied with gazing upon a flat yet beautiful country.

These are the first hills that gladden the sight of the traveller as he

ascends the river. They are to the northerner like oases in a desert.

How vividly and how agreeably does the sight of their green slopes, and

graceful undulations, conjure up the loved and heart-cherished scenes of

home!

We are now nearly opposite the town, which is pleasantly situated upon

the declivity of the hill, retreating over its brow and spreading out on

a plain in the rear, where the private dwellings are placed, shaded and

half embowered in the rich foliage of that loveliest of all shade-trees,

"the pride of China." The stores and other places of business are upon

the front street, which runs parallel with the river. The site of the

town is about forty feet above the highest flood, and rises by an easy

and gentle swell from the water. The barracks, a short distance from the

village, are handsome and commodious, constructed around a pentagonal

area--four noble buildings forming four sides, while the fifth is open,

fronting upon the river. The buildings are brick, with lofty colonnades

and double galleries running along the whole front. The columns are

yellow-stuccoed, striking the eye with a more pleasing effect, than the

red glare of brick. The view of these noble structures from the river,

as we passed, was very fine. From the esplanade there is an extensive

and commanding prospect of the inland country--the extended shores,

stretching out north and south, dotted with elegant villas, and richly

enamelled by their high state of cultivation. The officers are

gentlemanly men, and form a valuable acquisition to the society of the

neighbourhood. This station must be to them an agreeable sinecure. The

town, from the hasty survey which I was enabled to make of it, must be a

delightful residence. It is neat and well built; the French and Spanish

style of architecture prevails. The view of the town from the deck of

the steamer is highly beautiful. The rich, green swells rising gradually

from the water--its pleasant streets, bordered with the umbrageous

China tree--its colonnaded dwellings--its mingled town and rural

scenery, and its pleasant suburbs, give it an air of quiet and novel

beauty, such as one loves to gaze upon in old landscapes which the

imagination fills with ideal images of its own.

The scenery now partakes of another character. The rich plantations,

waving with green and golden crops of cane, are succeeded here and there

by a cotton plantation, but more generally by untrodden forests, hanging

over the banks, which are now for a hundred miles of one uniform

character and height--being about twenty feet above the highest floods.

Now and then a "squatter's" hut, instead of relieving, adds to the wild

and dreary character of the scene. This class of men with their

families, are usually in a most wretched and squalid condition. As they

live exposed to the fatal, poisonous miasma of the swamp, their

complexions are cadaverous, and their persons wasted by disease. They

sell wood to the steamboats for a means of subsistence--seldom

cultivating what little cleared land there may be around them. There are

exceptions to this, however. Many become eventually purchasers of the

tracts on which they are settled, and lay foundations for fine estates

and future independence.

Loftus's height, a striking eminence crowned by Fort Adams, appears in

the distance. It is a cluster of cliffs and hills nearly two hundred

feet in height. The old fort can just be discerned with a glass,

surmounting a natural platform, half way up the side of the most

prominent hill. The works present the appearance of a few green mounds,

and though defaced by time, still bear evidence of having been a

military post. The position is highly commanding and romantic. The

scenery around would be termed striking, even in Maine, that romantic

land of rocks, and cliffs, and mountains. A small village is at the base

of the hills, containing a few stores. Cotton is exported hence, and

steamers are now at the landing taking it in.

As we were passing the place on our way up the river, a white signal was

displayed from a pole held by some one standing on the shore. In a few

moments we came abreast of the fort, and in obedience to the fluttering

signal, our steamer rounded gracefully to, and put her jolly boat off

for the expected passengers. The boat had scarcely touched the bank,

before the boatmen at one leap gained the baggage which lay piled upon

the Levee, and tumbling it helter-skelter into the bottom of the boat,

as though for life and death, called out, so as to be heard far above

the deafening noise of the rushing steam as it hissed from the pipe,

"Come gentlemen, come, the boat's a-waiting." The new passengers had

barely time to pass into the boat and balance themselves erect upon the

thwarts, before, impelled by the nervous arms of the boatmen, she was

cutting her way through the turbid waves to the steamer, which had been

kept in her position against the strong current of the river, by an

occasional revolution of her wheels. The instant she struck her side the

boat was cleared immediately of "bag and baggage," at the "risk of the

owners" truly--and the hurrying passengers had hardly gained a footing

upon the guard, before the loud, brief command, "go ahead," was heard,

followed by the tinkling of the engineer's bell, the dull groaning of

the ponderous, labouring engine, and the heavy dash of the water, as

strongly beaten by the vast fins of this huge "river monster."