University of Virginia Library

23. XXIII.

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 though
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 Levée; while the
green banks of the Levée 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, moon-light, 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 wheelhouse,
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 meet 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 Levée
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 ever-green 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 Cœur,”—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 Levée, 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 Levée, 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.”