unhanged, at that day—­Bridal Chamber whose pretentious flummery was necessarily overawing to the now tottering intellect of that hosannahing citizen.  Every state-room had its couple of cozy clean bunks, and perhaps a looking-glass and a snug closet; and sometimes there was even a washbowl and pitcher, and part of a towel which could be told from mosquito netting by an expert—­though generally these things were absent, and the shirt-sleeved passengers cleansed themselves at a long row of stationary bowls in the barber shop, where were also public towels, public combs, and public soap.

Take the steamboat which I have just described, and you have her in her highest and finest, and most pleasing, and comfortable, and satisfactory estate.  Now cake her over with a layer of ancient and obdurate dirt, and you have the Cincinnati steamer awhile ago referred to.  Not all over—­only inside; for she was ably officered in all departments except the steward’s.

But wash that boat and repaint her, and she would be about the counterpart of the most complimented boat of the old flush times:  for the steamboat architecture of the West has undergone no change; neither has steamboat furniture and ornamentation undergone any.

Chapter 39 Manufactures and Miscreants

Where the river, in the Vicksburg region, used to be corkscrewed, it is now comparatively straight—­made so by cut-off; a former distance of seventy miles is reduced to thirty-five.  It is a change which threw Vicksburg’s neighbor, Delta, Louisiana, out into the country and ended its career as a river town.  Its whole river-frontage is now occupied by a vast sand-bar, thickly covered with young trees—­a growth which will magnify itself into a dense forest by-and-bye, and completely hide the exiled town.

In due time we passed Grand Gulf and Rodney, of war fame, and reached Natchez, the last of the beautiful hill-cities—­for Baton Rouge, yet to come, is not on a hill, but only on high ground.  Famous Natchez-under-the-hill has not changed notably in twenty years; in outward aspect—­ judging by the descriptions of the ancient procession of foreign tourists—­it has not changed in sixty; for it is still small, straggling, and shabby.  It had a desperate reputation, morally, in the old keel-boating and early steamboating times—­plenty of drinking, carousing, fisticuffing, and killing there, among the riff-raff of the river, in those days.  But Natchez-on-top-of-the-hill is attractive; has always been attractive.  Even Mrs. Trollope (1827) had to confess its charms: 

’At one or two points the wearisome level line is relieved by bluffs, as they call the short intervals of high ground.  The town of Natchez is beautifully situated on one of those high spots.  The contrast that its bright green hill forms with the dismal line of black forest that stretches on every side, the abundant growth of the pawpaw, palmetto and orange, the copious variety of sweet-scented flowers that flourish there, all make it appear like an oasis in the desert.  Natchez is the furthest point to the north at which oranges ripen in the open air, or endure the winter without shelter.  With the exception of this sweet spot, I thought all the little towns and villages we passed wretched-looking in the extreme.’