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.  The boatman sat down on the bank, reflecting on the fate of the philosopher; and, as the beaver disappeared in the bend of the river, he rose up and gave vent to his reflections in the following terms:  “I guess that gentleman was never taught much of the useful; learning is a good thing in its place, but I guess swimming is the thing on the Mississippi, fix it how you will.”

As I have alluded to that rara avis in the United States, a totally uneducated man, I may as well give an amusing specimen of the production of another Western, whose studies were evidently in their infancy.  It is a certificate of marriage, and runs thus:—­

  “State of Illenois Peoria County ss

“To all the world Greeting.  Know ye that John Smith and Peggy Myres is hereby certified to go together and do as old folks does, anywhere inside coperas precinct, and when my commission comes I am to marry em good, and date em back to kivver accidents.

  “O——­ M——­ R——­ [ss]

  “Justice of the Peace.”

Let us now return to the “Western World.”

Having committed the indiscretion of taking my passage on board of her, the next step I took—­i.e., paying for it—­was worse, and proclaimed me a griffin.  The old stagers know these waters too well to think of paying before they are at, or about, the end of their journey.  Having, however, both taken and paid for my passage, and committed what old maids and sailors would call the audacious folly of starting upon a Friday, I may as well give you a description of the boat.