The locomotive is in sight from the deck of the steamboat almost the whole way from St. Louis to St. Paul—­eight hundred miles.  These railroads have made havoc with the steamboat commerce.  The clerk of our boat was a steamboat clerk before these roads were built.  In that day the influx of population was so great, and the freight business so heavy, that the boats were not able to keep up with the demands made upon their carrying capacity; consequently the captains were very independent and airy—­pretty ‘biggity,’ as Uncle Remus would say.  The clerk nut-shelled the contrast between the former time and the present, thus—­

’Boat used to land—­captain on hurricane roof—­mighty stiff and straight—­iron ramrod for a spine—­kid gloves, plug tile, hair parted behind—­man on shore takes off hat and says—­

’"Got twenty-eight tons of wheat, cap’n—­be great favor if you can take them.”

’Captain says—­

’"’ll take two of them”—­and don’t even condescend to look at him.

’But nowadays the captain takes off his old slouch, and smiles all the way around to the back of his ears, and gets off a bow which he hasn’t got any ramrod to interfere with, and says—­

’"Glad to see you, Smith, glad to see you—­you’re looking well—­haven’t seen you looking so well for years—­what you got for us?”

’"Nuth’n”, says Smith; and keeps his hat on, and just turns his back and goes to talking with somebody else.

’Oh, yes, eight years ago, the captain was on top; but it’s Smith’s turn now.  Eight years ago a boat used to go up the river with every stateroom full, and people piled five and six deep on the cabin floor; and a solid deck-load of immigrants and harvesters down below, into the bargain.  To get a first-class stateroom, you’d got to prove sixteen quarterings of nobility and four hundred years of descent, or be personally acquainted with the nigger that blacked the captain’s boots.  But it’s all changed now; plenty staterooms above, no harvesters below—­there’s a patent self-binder now, and they don’t have harvesters any more; they’ve gone where the woodbine twineth—­and they didn’t go by steamboat, either; went by the train.’

Up in this region we met massed acres of lumber rafts coming down—­but not floating leisurely along, in the old-fashioned way, manned with joyous and reckless crews of fiddling, song-singing, whiskey-drinking, breakdown-dancing rapscallions; no, the whole thing was shoved swiftly along by a powerful stern-wheeler, modern fashion, and the small crews were quiet, orderly men, of a sedate business aspect, with not a suggestion of romance about them anywhere.

Along here, somewhere, on a black night, we ran some exceedingly narrow and intricate island-chutes by aid of the electric light.  Behind was solid blackness—­a crackless bank of it; ahead, a narrow elbow of water, curving between dense walls of foliage that almost touched our bows on both sides; and here every individual leaf, and every individual ripple stood out in its natural color, and flooded with a glare as of noonday intensified.  The effect was strange, and fine, and very striking.