She had just
passed Vicksburg. The night was dark and gloomy. Those bright, beautiful
moons, with which the panorama-mongers are wont to gild the eddying
current, and solemnize the scenery with a pale loveliness, were not in
the ascendant. Even the bright stars were hid by the thick clouds. The
darkness cast a sad gloom over the scene, which a few hours before had
been "leaping in light, and alive with its own beauty." The yellow bank
rose high on either side of the river, and formed a sombre wall, which
seemed to keep the sojourner on the tide a prisoner from the world
above.
Yet, deep as was the darkness, and perilous as was the navigation of the
river, the Chalmetta sluggishly pursued her upward course, shunning
sand-bars and snags which the eye could not see, and which the stranger
knew not of. Now she crept, like a thief at night, so closely beneath
the high bank that her tall chimneys almost swept the overhanging
branches; then, stealing from the treacherous shoal, she sped her way
through the middle of the vast waters, as if ashamed of her former
timidity.
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