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Walked down to Natchy-under-hill, to inquire about a boat to New Orleans: saw one monster come groaning down the stream, looking like a huge cotton-bale on fire. Not a portion of the vessel remained above water, that could be seen, excepting the ends of the chimneys: the hull and all else was hidden by the cotton-bags, piled on each other, tier over tier, like bricks.
From no party, however, did our company meet the slightest observation; although, a very few years back, for strangers to have strolled about here, without other purpose than spying into the nakedness of the land, might have proved, to say the least of it, a perilous adventure; as it is more than probable they would have been followed by a long shot, likely enough to bring a book of travels to an abrupt conclusion; but even at Natchy-under-hill, manners, if not morals, are improving.
On my observing to him that I conceived it a little hard not to touch for passengers when apparently so near to them, he informed me that the river was in rapid rise, and a current setting on that shore that might ground the boat. Friday, 6th. My servant awoke me with the tidings that our voyage was complete, and we at Natchy-under-hill, where all things destined for the upper region are landed.
Learning that the steamer Carolton was to sail this afternoon, I once more descended into Natchy-under-hill, where I had an interview with the captain, who was, I found, a worthy legitimate follower of old Father Ocean, recently transferred to the service of one of his greatest tributaries: he readily promised to delay sailing for a couple of hours for me, until the play was over; this point being settled, I felt at ease, and accompanied Mr.
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