CHAPTER X.
_River Scenes_.
I felt very anxious to make an excursion from St.Louis, and get a little shooting, either to the north-west or down near Cairo, where there are deer; but my companion was dying to get to New Orleans, and strongly urged me not to delay, "fiddling after sport." I always looked upon myself as a model of good-natured easiness, ever ready to sacrifice self for a friend; but I have been told by some intimates, that such is not my character, and some have even said, "You're a obstinate follow." If they were wrong, I suffered enough for my easiness; if they were right, I must have yielded the only time that I ought to have been firm; at all events, I gave up my shooting expedition, which I had intended to occupy the time with till a first-class boat started for New Orleans; and, in an evil hour, I allowed myself to be inveigled on board the "Western World." The steam was up, and we were soon bowling down the leviathan artery of the North American continent.

Why the said artery should keep the name of the Mississippi, I cannot explain; for, not only is the Missouri the larger river above the confluence, but the Mississippi is a clear stream, with solid, and, in some instances, granite-bound shores, and perfectly free from "snags;" whereas the Missouri has muddy banks, and revels in snags, which, as many have sadly experienced, is the case with the stream on which they are borne throughout its whole length, thereby fully evincing its true parentage, and painfully exhibiting its just right to be termed Missouri; but the rights of men and women are difficult enough to settle, without entering into the rights of rivers, although from them, as from men and women, flow both good and evil.

A truce to rights, then, especially in this "Far West," where every one is obliged to maintain his own for himself.
This river is one of the places assigned as the scene of the conversation between the philosopher and the boatman--a tale so old, that it had probably died out before some of my younger readers were born; I therefore insert it for their benefit exclusively .-- A philosopher, having arrived at a ferry, entered a boat, rowed by one of those rare articles in this enlightened Republic--a man without any education.
PHILOSOPHER _( loquitur)._--Can you write?
BOATMAN .-- I guess I can't.
PHILOSOPHER .-- How sad! why, you've lost one-third of your life! Of course you can read?
BOATMAN,--Well, I guess I can't that neither.
PHILOSOPHER .-- Good gracious me! why, you've lost two-thirds of your life.
When the conversation had proceeded thus far, the boatman discovered that, in listening to his learned passenger, he had neglected that vigilance which the danger of the river rendered indispensable.

The stream was hurrying them into a most frightful snag; escape was hopeless; so the boatman opened the conversation with this startling question: BOATMAN .-- Can you swim, sir?
PHILOSOPHER .-- No, that I can't.
BOATMAN .-- Then, I guess, you've lost all your life.
Ere the sentence was finished, the boat upset; the sturdy rower struggled manfully, and reached the shore in safety.

On looking round, nought was to be seen of the philosopher save his hat, floating down to New Orleans.