In the space of one hundred and seventy-six years the Lower Mississippi has shortened itself two hundred and forty-two miles.  That is an average of a trifle over one mile and a third per year.  Therefore, any calm person, who is not blind or idiotic, can see that in the Old Oolitic Silurian Period,’ just a million years ago next November, the Lower Mississippi River was upwards of one million three hundred thousand miles long, and stuck out over the Gulf of Mexico like a fishing-rod.  And by the same token any person can see that seven hundred and forty-two years from now the Lower Mississippi will be only a mile and three-quarters long, and Cairo and New Orleans will have joined their streets together, and be plodding comfortably along under a single mayor and a mutual board of aldermen.  There is something fascinating about science.  One gets such wholesale returns of conjecture out of such a trifling investment of fact.

When the water begins to flow through one of those ditches I have been speaking of, it is time for the people thereabouts to move.  The water cleaves the banks away like a knife.  By the time the ditch has become twelve or fifteen feet wide, the calamity is as good as accomplished, for no power on earth can stop it now.  When the width has reached a hundred yards, the banks begin to peel off in slices half an acre wide.  The current flowing around the bend traveled formerly only five miles an hour; now it is tremendously increased by the shortening of the distance.  I was on board the first boat that tried to go through the cut-off at American Bend, but we did not get through.  It was toward midnight, and a wild night it was—­thunder, lightning, and torrents of rain.  It was estimated that the current in the cut-off was making about fifteen or twenty miles an hour; twelve or thirteen was the best our boat could do, even in tolerably slack water, therefore perhaps we were foolish to try the cut-off.  However, Mr. Brown was ambitious, and he kept on trying.  The eddy running up the bank, under the ‘point,’ was about as swift as the current out in the middle; so we would go flying up the shore like a lightning express train, get on a big head of steam, and ‘stand by for a surge’ when we struck the current that was whirling by the point.  But all our preparations were useless.  The instant the current hit us it spun us around like a top, the water deluged the forecastle, and the boat careened so far over that one could hardly keep his feet.  The next instant we were away down the river, clawing with might and main to keep out of the woods.  We tried the experiment four times.  I stood on the forecastle companion way to see.  It was astonishing to observe how suddenly the boat would spin around and turn tail the moment she emerged from the eddy and the current struck her nose.  The sounding concussion and the quivering would have been about the same if she had come full speed against a sand-bank.  Under the lightning flashes one could see the plantation