| EARLY in July, 1860, we 
	started on our journey. I am now in my seventeenth year. We sailed from 
	Collingwood on an American propeller, which brought us to Milwaukee, on Lake 
	Michigin. Here we took a train through a part of Wisconsin to Lacrosse, on 
	the Mississippi River, which place we reached about midnight, and 
	immediately were transferred to a big Mississippi steamer. Here everything was new—the 
	style and build of the boat, long and broad and fiat, made to run in very 
	shallow water. The manner of propelling this 
	huge craft was a very large wheel, as wide as the boat, and fixed to the 
	stern, and which in its revolutions fairly churned the waters in her wake. The system of navigation was 
	so different; the pilot steered the boat, not by his knowledge of the fixed 
	channel, but by his experience of the lights and shadows on the water which 
	by day or night indicated to him the deep and shallow parts. 
	Passengers and mails had no sooner been 
	transferred, than tinkle! tinkle went the bells, and our big steamer 
	quivered from stem to stern, and then began to vibrate and shake as if in a 
	fit of ague, and we were out in the stream and breasting the current of this 
	mighty river. Dancing 
	was going on in the cabin of the boat when we went on board; but soon all 
	was quiet except the noise of the engines and the splash of the paddles. 
	Next morning we were greeted with beautiful 
	river scenery. Long stretches, majestic bends, terraced banks, abrupt cliffs 
	succeeded each other in grand array. 
	During the day we came to Lake Pepin, and here 
	were joined to another big steamer. The two were fastened together side by 
	side to run the length of the lake, and also to give the passengers of the 
	other boat opportunity to come aboard ours, and be entertained by music and 
	dancing. 
	 The colored steward and 
	waiters of our boat were a grand orchestra in themselves. 
	One big colored man was master of ceremonies. 
	Above the din of machinery and splashing of huge paddles rose his voice in 
	stentorian tones: "Right!" "Left" "Promenade!" 
	Change Partners!" "Swing partners ! " And thus 
	the fun went on that bright afternoon; while, like a pair of Siamese twins, 
	our big sternwheelers ploughed up the current of the "Big River," this being 
	the literal translation of the word Mississippi. 
	Both boats had crowds of Southern people and 
	their slaves as passengers; and if what we saw was the whole of slavery, 
	these were having a good time. But, as the colored barber on our boat said 
	to me, "This is the very bright side of it." 
	And then he asked me if we were not English. And 
	when I told him we were Canadians, he wanted me to ask father to help some 
	of these slaves to freedom. But it was not long after this when the mighty 
	struggle took place which resulted in the freeing of all the slaves. 
	These were the days of steamboats on the 
	Mississippi, which Mark Twain has immortalized. 
	From port to port the pilot reigned supreme. 
	What a lordly fellow he was! As soon as the boat was tied to the bank the 
	captain and mate took the reins, and they drove with a vengeance, putting 
	off or taking on freight at the stopping- places, and taking in cordwood 
	from the barge towed alongside in order to save time. 
	They made those "roust-abouts" jump. The captain 
	would cuff, and the mate would kick, and the two would vie with each other 
	in profanity, and thus they rushed things; and when ready, the pilot with 
	quiet dignity would resume his throne. 
	When the channel narrowed our boats parted, and 
	to change the excitement began a race. 
	Throw in the pitch pine-knots, fling in the 
	chunks of bacon! Make steam! more steam! is the meaning of the ringing of 
	bells, and the messages which follow each other down from the pilot house to 
	the engine room. This 
	time we seemed as yet to be about matched, when our rival pilot undertook to 
	run between us and the bar, and in doing so ran his boat hard and fast in 
	the sand. We gave him a 
	parting cheer and went on, reaching St. Paul some twenty-four hours ahead. 
	St. Paul, now a fine city, was then a mere 
	village.  |