uainted with the Creole delicacies of
"gumbo", "fish chowder," fricasseed frogs, hot "waffles," stewed
tomatoes, and many other dainties of the Louisiana _cuisine_. From the
hands of Scipio himself I did not refuse a slice of "roasted 'possum,"
and went even so far as to taste a "'coon steak,"--but only once, and I
regarded it as once too often. Scipio, however, had no scruples about
eating this fox-like creature, and could demolish the greater part of
one at a single sitting!

By degrees I became initiated into the little habitudes and customs of
life upon a Louisiana plantation. "Ole Zip" was my instructor, as he
continued to be my constant attendant. When Scipio's talk tired me, I
had recourse to books, of which a good stock (mostly French authors,)
filled the little book-case in my apartment. I found among them nearly
every work that related to Louisiana--a proof of rare judgment on the
part of whoever had made the collection. Among others, I read the
graceful romance of Chateaubriand, and the history of Du Pratz. In the
former I could not help remarking that want of _vraisemblance_ which, in
my opinion, forms the great charm of a novel; and which must ever be
absent where an author attempts the painting of scenes or costumes not
known to him by actual observation.

With regard to the historian, he indulges largely in those childish
exaggerations so characteristic of the writers of the time. This remark
applies, without exception, to all the old writers on American
subjects--whether English, Spanish, or French--the chroniclers of
two-headed snakes, crocodiles twenty yards long, and was big enough to
swallow both horse and rider! Indeed, it is difficult to conceive how
these old authors gained credence for their incongruous stories; but it
must be remembered that science was not then sufficiently advanced "to
audit their accounts."

More than in anything else was I interested in the adventures and
melancholy fate of La Salle; and I could not help wondering that
American writers have done so little to illustrate the life of the brave
chevalier--surely the most picturesque passage in their early history--
the story and the scene equally inviting.

"The scene! Ah! lovely indeed!"

With such an exclamation did I hail it, when, for the first time, I sat
at my window and gazed out upon a Louisiana landscape.

The windows, as in all Creole houses, reached down to the floor; and
seated in my lounge-chair, wi