About the middle of the afternoon I ran the sneak-box on to the sloping levee of Baton Rouge, the capital of Louisiana; and, locking the hatch, went to the post-office for letters, and to the stores for provisions.  Returning to the levee, I found a good-natured crowd had taken possession of my boat, and at once availed myself of the local information in regard to the chances of a passage through Bayou Manchac, which was only fifteen miles below the town.  Each told a different story.  One gentleman said, “You will have to get four niggers to lift your boat over the levee of Mr. Walker’s plantation, and put it into Bayou Manchac, which is about one hundred yards from the banks of the Mississippi.  Its mouth was filled up a long time ago, but when once in the bayou you can float down to the Amite River, and so on to the Gulf.”  Another voice contradicted this statement, exclaiming, “Why, the bayou is dried up for a distance of at least eight miles from its head.”  At this point a well-dressed gentleman advanced, and quietly said:  “I live on the Bayou Manchac, and can assure you that after you have hauled your boat through the Woodstock Plantation of the Walker family, you will find water enough in the bayou to float down upon to the Amite River.”

The crowd now became fully alive to the discussion of the geography of their locality.  Each man who favored me with an opinion on the Manchac question contradicted his neighbor; which was only a renewal of old experiences, for I always found local knowledge of geography and distances of little value.  As the debate ran high, I thought of D’Iberville, who had thoroughly explored the short bayou several generations before, and who might now have enlightened these people in regard to a stream that ran through their own lands.  D’Iberville was, however, born in Canada, and probably had more time to look into such matters, or he would not have travelled several thousand miles to explore Louisiana.

I thanked the company for their interest in the discussion, which, like the questions before a debating society, had ended only in opinions.  I promised to let them know the truth of the matter if I visited Baton Rouge again, and pushing out into the current, pulled towards Woodstock Plantation, where I arrived soon after dark; but fearing to land on account of the dogs, whose reception of a stranger in the dark was, to say the least, unceremonious, I tied up to a high bank, and “turned in” for the night.

Having left the wilderness and its protecting creeks and islands, I was destined to feel all the annoyances attending a camper in a cultivated and settled region.  The steamboats tossed me about all night, so that morning was indeed welcome, and having refreshed myself with a dip and a djener, I climbed the bank, and was rewarded with the sight of a noble mansion, with its gardens of blooming roses, and lawns of bright green grass.  This was the Woodstock Plantation, of