servants, cows, horses, sheep, dogs, and poultry,—­all floating on the same bottom.  It was precisely in this fashion that the Pennsylvanian farmer and his wife had reached New Orleans.  Indeed, most of our fellow-passengers had come as captains or crews of flat boats.  Of course, no attempt is made to get these unwieldy boats back against the current.  It would be impracticable.  The flat boat makes but one trip during its individual existence.  Arrived at New Orleans, it is sold for “lumber,” and taken to pieces.  In short, by this arrangement timber and produce are brought to market at the same time, the “stuff” of which the float is composed being but little injured.  One cannot look at these temporary structures without being impressed with the vast importance of those water-powers which the Americans, with a wonderful tact, bring to bear in the way of saw-mills on the exhaustless resources of the forest.  The very first thing looked for in settling a new district is water-power.

These flats, though destined for but a single voyage, sometimes do not reach their port,—­seldom without more or less of danger,—­and never without infinite toil’ They usually carry but three or four hands.  Their form and gravity render them very unmanageable.  Lying flat and dead in the water, with square timbers below their bottom planks, they often run on a sandbank with a strong head-way, and bury their timbers in the soil.  To get them afloat again is a great labour.  Sometimes they run upon a “snag,” and are instantly swallowed up with all their crew and all their cargo.  Sometimes a steamer runs into one of them, and produces a catastrophe equally fatal to both.  But all the toils, and dangers, and exposures connected with the long and perilous voyage of a flat boat, do not appear to the passer-by.  As you cut along by the power of steam, the flat boat seems anything but a place of toil or care.  One of the hands scrapes a violin, while the others dance.  Affectionate greetings, or rude defiances, or trials of wit, or proffers of love to the girls on shore, or saucy messages pass between them and the spectators along the bank, or on the steam-boat.  Yet, knowing the dangers to which they were really exposed, the sight of them often brought to my remembrance an appropriate verse of Dr. Watts:—­

“Your streams were floating me along
  Down to the gulf of black despair;
And, whilst I listened to your song,
  Your streams had e’en conveyed me there.”

These boats, however, do not venture to travel by night; consequently, at any good landing-place on the Mississippi, you may see towards evening a large number of them assembled.  They have come from regions thousands of miles apart.  They have never met before,—­they will probably never meet again.  The fleet of flats covers, perhaps, a surface of several acres.  “Fowls are fluttering over the roofs as invariable appendages.  The piercing note of the chanticleer is heard.  The cattle low.  The horses trample as in their stables.  The swine scream, and fight with each other.  The turkeys jobble.  The dogs of a hundred regions become acquainted.  The boatmen travel about from boat to boat, to make inquiries and form acquaintances.”  It is a world in miniature.