ole of our drive along the new canal road.

At the first plantation at which we halted, in order to give the horses
a feed, gates and doors were all shut in our faces, and the hospitable
owner of the house warned us to be off. As this warning was conveyed in
the shape of a couple of rifle-barrels protruded through the jalousies,
we did not think it advisable to neglect it. The reception was cheerless
enough; but we came from New Orleans, and could expect no better one.
Caesar, however, dauntless as his celebrated namesake, jumped over a
paling, and plucked an armful of Indian corn ears, which he gave to the
horses; an earthen pan served to fetch them water from the Mississippi,
and after a short pause we resumed our journey. Five times, I remember,
we halted, and were received in the same humane and hospitable manner,
until at last we reached the plantation of my friend Bankes. We had come
fifty miles under a burning sun, and had passed more than fifty
plantations, each with its commodious and elegant villa built upon it;
but we had not yet seen a human face. Here, however, I hoped to find
shelter and refreshment; but in that hope I was doomed to be
disappointed.

"From New Orleans?" enquired the voice of my friend through the
jalousies of his verandah.

"To be sure," answered I.

"Then begone, friend, and be d----d to you!" was the affectionate reply
of the worthy Mr Bankes, who was, nevertheless, kind enough to cause a
huge ham and accessories, together with half a dozen well-filled
bottles, to be placed outside the door--a sort of mute intimation that
he was happy to see us, so long as we did not cross his threshold. I had
a hearty laugh at this half-and-half hospitality, eat and drank, wrapped
myself in a blanket, and slept, with the blue vault for a covering, as
well or better than the president.

In the morning, before starting, I shouted out a "Thank ye! and be
d----d to you!" by way of _remerciment_; and then we resumed our march.

At last, upon the third evening, we managed to get our heads under a
roof at the town of Baton Rouge, in the house of an old French soldier,
who laughed at the yellow fever as he had formerly done at the Cossacks
and Mamelukes; and the following morning we started for the Red River,
in the steamboat Clayborne. By nightfall we reached my domain.

_Santa Virgen!_ exclaims the Spaniard in his extremity of grief and
perplexity: what I exclaimed, I am sure I do not remember; but I k