carried up the gangway stair I met it halfway. I glanced my eye over
the lettering, and read--

"_Mademoiselle Eugenie Besancon_."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE STARTING.

The last bell rings--the "can't-get-away" folks rush ashore--the
staging-plank is drawn in--some heedless wight has to jump for it--the
cable is pulled aboard and coiled--the engineer's bell tinkles--the
great wheels revolve, lashing the brown water into foam--the steam
"whistles" and screams at the boilers, and booms from the 'scape-pipe in
regular repetitions--neighbouring boats are pressed out of their
places--their planks cringe and crackle--guards are broken, or the
slight timbers of wheel-houses, causing a cross-fire of curses between
the crews--and after some minutes of this pandemoniac confusion, the
huge craft clears herself, and rides out upon the broad bosom of the
river.

She heads up-stream; a few strokes of the revolving paddles and the
current is mastered; and the noble boat yielding to the mighty
propulsion, cleaves her liquid way, "walking the water like a thing of
life!"

Perchance the boom of a cannon announces her departure; perchance it is
animated by the harmonious swell of brazen instruments; or still more
appropriate, some old "boatman's song," with its lively chorus, is heard
issuing from the rude, though not unmusical throats of the "hands"
below.

Lafayette and Carrolton are soon passed; the humbler roofs of stores and
dwellings sink out of sight; and the noble dome of Saint Charles, the
spires of churches, and the towers of the great cathedral, are all of
the Crescent City that remain above the horizon. These, at length, go
down; and the "floating palace" moves on in stately grandeur between the
picturesque shores of the Mississippi.

I have said "picturesque." This word does not satisfy me, nor can I
think of one that will delineate my idea. I must make use of a phrase,
"picturesquely beautiful," to express my admiration of the scenery of
those shores. I have no hesitation in pronouncing it the finest in the
world.

I am not gazing upon it with a mere cold eye-glance. I cannot separate
scenery from its associations--not its associations of the past, but
with the present. I look upon the ruined castles of the Rhine, and
their story impresses me with a feeling of disgust for what _has been_.
I look upon its modern homes and their dwellers; I am equally filled
with disgust for what _is_. In the Bay of Naples