I was awakened, in the morning, by the loud ringing of a hand-bell; and, turning out of my berth, dressed by dim lamp-light. The waiters were serving coffee and collecting baggage; and, upon stepping out of the cabin, I found that the boat was made fast to a long wooden jetty, and the passengers were going ashore. A passage ticket for New Orleans was handed me, as I crossed the gang-plank. There was a rail track and a train of cars upon the wharf, but no locomotive; and I got my baggage checked, and walked on toward the shore.

It was early daylight–a fog rested on the water, and only the nearest point could be discerned. There were many small buildings near the jetty, erected on piles over the water–bathing-houses, bowling-alleys, and billiard-rooms, with other indications of a place of holiday resort–and, on reaching the shore, I found a slumbering village. The first house from the wharf had a garden about it, with complex alleys, and tables, and arbors, and rustic seats, and cut shrubs, and shells, and statues, and vases; and a lamp was feebly burning in a large lantern over the entrance gate. I was thinking how similar it was to a rural restaurant in France or Germany, when a locomotive backed, screaming hoarsely, down the jetty; and I returned to get my seat.