When the shades of night gather around our floating hotel, we all flock to the spacious public saloon, some eighty feet long, tastily furnished, well lighted with blazing fires, &c., &c. Newspapers, books and religious tracts are scattered round by some friendly passengers, for the mutual benefit of the whole. Some read, some talk, some sit in perfect silence, apparently buried deep in thought, while others amuse themselves with a game of chance.

Stools, settees, sofas, divans, ottomans; occupying them are clusters of men, old and young, wise and simple; in their hands are cards spotted with diamonds, spades, clubs, hearts; the favorite games are whist, cribbage, and brag. Lounging in arm-chairs or sauntering among the marble-topped tables, amused with the scene, are the comparatively few, who, instead of having their hands in the games, for the most part keep their hands in their pockets. These may be the philosophers.