A man appears on the bank and signals, but even he is not in a hurry, finding a comfortable seat before ho begins his waving ; then the captain confers with the mate, the dsok-hands gather on the side to inspect the man, and all so slowly that you feel sure the boat will not stop, and look forward towards the next bend. But the engine pauses, the steamer veers slowly round, runs its head into the bank; out comes the plank, and out comes the motley crew, who proceed to bring on board earthenware, lumber, or whatever the waving man has ready for them, while, he still seated, watches the work and fans himself with his straw hat. To eyes accustomed to the ocean, or the deep lakes and rivers of the North, with their long piers, solid docks and steamers drawing many feet of water, this landing with the ease of a row-boat is new and strange. The large towns have what they call a levee—pronounced levy— which is nothing more than a rough stone pavement over the sloping bank; but the villages off the railroads, where the steamers generally stop • for freight, have nothing but an old flat boat moored on the shore, and many of them have not even this. The large handsome, well-filled steamboats run right up into the bank, so that even a plank is hardly necessary for landing, and all you have to do is to take your bag and step ashore. The steamers, large as they are, draw but a few feet of water ; their bulk is above, not below the tide ; they float along like a plank, and there are no waves to dash over their low, open decks. If they run aground, which they often do in the varying channel, down comes a great beam, fastened with tackle like a derrick, on the bow, and this, having been pushed into the river bottom, the engine is started, and the boat prised off. If there is a fog at night—as there often is—the'captain ties up his boat to the bank, and all hands go to sleep, which is a safe if not a brilliant course to pursue. 