Voyage of the Paper Canoe
 A Geographical Journey of 2500 Miles, from Quebec to the Gulf of Mexico, During the Years 1874-5

Ver.04.29.93*END*

Voyage of the Paper Canoe, N. H. Bishop, 1878

This Etext prepared by Charles Hall chall@totalsports.net

Voyage of the Paper Canoe, by N. H. Bishop, 1878

A GEOGRAPHICAL JOURNEY OF 2500 MILES FROM

QUEBEC TO THE GULF OF MEXICO,

DURING THE YEARS 1874-5.

BY NATHANIEL H. BISHOP,

AUTHOR OF "ONE THOUSAND MILES WALK ACROSS SOUTH AMERICA"

AND CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE BOSTON SOCIETY OF NATURAL HISTORY

AND OF THE NEW YORK ACADEMY OF SCIENCES.

BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS. NEW YORK: CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM. 1878.

TO THE SUPERINTENDENT. ASSISTANTS, AIDS, AND ALL EMPLOYEES OF THE

UNITED STATES COAST SURVEY BUREAU, THE "VOYAGE OF THE PAPER CANOE"

IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED,

AS A SLIGHT EVIDENCE OF THE APPRECIATION BY ITS AUTHOR FOR

THEIR INTELLIGENT EFFORTS AND SELF-DENYING LABORS

IN THE SERVICE OF THEIR COUNTRY, SO PATIENTLY

AND SKILFULLY PERFORMING, UNDER MANY

DIFFICULTIES AND DANGERS.

INTRODUCTION.

The author left Quebec, Dominion of Canada,

July 4, 1874, with a single assistant, in a wooden

canoe eighteen feet in length, bound for the Gulf of

Mexico. It was his intention to follow the natural

and artificial connecting watercourses of the

continent in the most direct line southward to the gulf

coast of Florida, making portages as seldom as

possible, to show how few were the interruptions to

a continuous water-way for vessels of light draught,

from the chilly, foggy, and rocky regions of the Gulf

of St. Lawrence in the north, to the semi-tropical

waters of the great Southern Sea, the waves of which

beat upon the sandy shores of the southernmost

United States. Having proceeded about four

hundred miles upon his voyage, the author reached

Troy, on the Hudson River, New York state, where

for several years E. Waters & Sons had been

perfecting the construction of paper boats.

The advantages in using a boat of only fifty-eight

pounds weight, the strength and durability of which

had been well and satisfactorily tested, could not

be questioned, and the author dismissed his

assistant, and "paddled his own canoe" about two

thousand miles to the end of the journey. Though

frequently lost in the labyrinth of creeks and marshes

which skirt the southern coast of his country, the

author's difficulties were greatly lessened by the use

of the valuable and elaborate charts of the United

States Coast Survey Bureau, to the faithful

executers of which he desires to give unqualified and

grateful praise.

To an unknown wanderer among the creeks, rivers,

and sounds of the coast, the courteous treatment of

the Southern people was most gratifying. The

author can only add to this expression an extract

from his reply to the address of the Mayor of St.

Mary's, Georgia, which city honored him with an

ovation and presentation of flags after the

completion of his voyage:

"Since my little paper canoe entered southern

waters upon her geographical errand, -- from the

capes of the Delaware to your beautiful St. Mary's,

-- I have been deeply sensible of the value of

Southern hospitality. The oystermen and fishermen

living along the lonely beaches of the eastern shore

of Maryland and Virginia; the surfmen and

lighthouse keepers of Albemarle, Pamplico, and Core

sounds, in North Carolina; the ground-nut planters

who inhabit the uplands that skirt the network of

creeks, marshes, ponds, and sounds from Bogue

Inlet to Cape Fear; the piny-woods people,

lumbermen, and turpentine distillers on the little bluffs

that jut into the fastnesses of the great swamps of the

crooked Waccamaw River; the representatives of

the once powerful rice-planting aristocracy of the

Santee and Peedee rivers; the colored men of the

beautiful sea-islands along the coast of Georgia;

The Floridians living between the St. Mary's River

and the Suwanee -- the wild river of song; the

islanders on the Gulf of Mexico where I terminated

my long journey; -- all have contributed to make the

'Voyage of the Paper Canoe' a success."

After returning from this paper-canoe voyage, the

author embarked alone, December 2, 1875, in a cedar

duck-boat twelve feet in length, from the head of

the Ohio River, at Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and

followed the Ohio and Mississippi rivers over two

thousand miles to New Orleans, where he made a

portage through that city eastwardly to Lake

Pontchartrain, and rowed along the shores of the Gulf

of Mexico six or seven hundred miles, to Cedar

Keys, Florida, the terminus of his paper-canoe

voyage.

While on these two voyages, the author rowed over

five thousand miles, meeting with but one accident,

the overturning of his canoe in Delaware Bay.

He returned to his home with his boats in good

condition, and his note-books, charts, &c., in an

excellent state of preservation.

At the request of the "Board on behalf of the

United States Executive Department" of the

Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia, the paper canoe

"Maria Theresa," and the cedar duck-boat "Centennial

Republic," were deposited in the Smithsonian

Department of the United States Government

building, during the summer and fall of 1876.

The maps, which show the route followed by

the paper canoe, have been drawn and engraved

by contract at the United States Coast Survey

Bureau, and are on a scale of 1/1,500,000. As the work

is based on the results of actual surveys, the

maps may be considered, for their size, the most

complete of the United States coast ever presented

to the public.

Much credit is due to Messrs. Waud and Merrill

for the artistic results of their pencils, and to Messrs.

John Andrew & Son for their skill in engraving the

illustrations.

To the readers of the author's first book of

travels, "The Pampas and Andes: a Thousand Miles'

Walk across South America," which journey was

undertaken when he was but seventeen years of

age, the writer would say that their many kind and

appreciative letters have prompted him to send forth

this second book of travels -- the "Voyage of the

Paper Canoe."

LAKE GEORGE, WARREN COUNTY, N. Y.,

JANUARY 1, 1878.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. THE APPROACHES TO THE WATER-WAY OF THE CONTINENT.

ISLAND OF ST. PAUL. -- THE PORTALS OF THE GULF OF ST.

LAWRENCE. -- THE EXTINCT AUK. -- ANTICOSTI ISLAND. --

ICEBERGS. -- SAILORS' SUPERSTITIONS. -- THE ESTUARY OF

THE ST. LAWRENCE. -- TADOUSAC. -- THE SAGUENAY

RIVER. -- WHITE WHALES. -- QUEBEC.

CHAPTER II. FROM QUEBEC TO SOREL.

THE WATER WAY INTO THE CONTINENT. -- THE WESTERN AND

THE SOUTHERN ROUTE TO THE GULF OF MEXICO. -- THE

MAYETA. -- COMMENCEMENT OF THE VOYAGE. -- ASCENT of

THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE. -- LAKE. of ST. PETER. --

ACADIAN TOWN OF SOREL.

CHAPTER III. FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER TO TICONDEROGA, LAKE CHAMPLAIN.

THE RICHELIEU RIVER. -- ACADIAN SCENES. -- ST. OURS. -- ST.

ANTOINE. -- ST. MARKS. -- BELOEIL. -- CHAMBLY CANAL. -- ST.

JOHNS. -- LAKE CHAMPLAIN. -- THE GREAT SHIP CANAL. --

DAVID BODFISH'S CAMP. -- THE ADIRONDACK SURVEY. -- A

CANVAS BOAT. -- DIMENSIONS OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN. -- PORT

KENT. -- AUSABLE CHASM. -- ARRIVAL AT TICONDEROGA.

CHAPTER IV. FROM LAKES GEORGE AND CHAMPLAIN TO THE HUDSON RIVER.

THE DISCOVERY OF LAKE GEORGE BY FATHER JOGUES. -- A

PEDESTRIAN JOURNEY. -- THE HERMIT OF THE NARROWS. --

CONVENT OF ST. MARY'S of THE LAKE. -- THE PAULIST

FATHERS. -- CANAL ROUTE FROM LAKE. CHAMPLAIN TO

ALBANY. -- BODFISH RETURNS TO NEW JERSEY. -- THE LITTLE

FLEET IN ITS HAVEN OF REST.

CHAPTER V. THE AMERICAN PAPER BOAT AND ENGLISH CANOES.

THE PECULIAR CHARACTER OF THE PAPER BOAT. -- THE

HISTORY OF THE ADOPTION OF PAPER FOR BOATS. -- A BOY'S

INGENUITY. -- THE PROCESS OF BUILDING PAPER BOATS

DESCRIBED. -- COLLEGE CLUBS ADOPTING THEM. -- THE GREAT

VICTORIES WON BY PAPER OVER WOODEN SHELLS IN 1876.

CHAPTER VI. FROM TROY TO PHILADELPHIA.

PAPER CANOE MARIA THERESA. -- THE START. -- THE DESCENT

OF THE HUDSON RIVER. -- -- CROSSING THE UPPER BAY OF

NEW YORK. -- PASSAGE OF THE KILLS. -- RARITAN RIVER. --

THE CANAL ROUTE FROM NEW BRUNSWICK TO THE

DELAWARE RIVER. -- FROM BORDENTOWN TO PHILADELPHIA.

CHAPTER VII. FROM PHILADELPHIA TO CAPE HENLOPEN.

DESCENT OF DELAWARE RIVER. -- MY FIRST CAMP. -- BOMBAY

HOOK. -- MURDERKILL CREEK. -- A STORM IN DELAWARE

BAY. -- CAPSIZING OF THE CANOE. -- A SWIM FOR LIFE. --

THE PERSIMMON GROVE. -- WILLOW GROVE INN. -- THE

LIGHTS OF CAPES MAY AND HENLOPEN.

CHAPTER VIII. FROM CAPE HENLOPEN TO NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.

THE PORTAGE TO LOVE CREEK. -- THE DELAWARE

WHIPPINGPOST. -- REHOBOTH AND INDIAN RIVER BAYS. -- A PORTAGE

TO LITTLE ASSAWAMAN BAY. -- ISLE OF WIGHT BAY. --

WINCHESTER PLANTATION. -- CHINCOTEAGUE. -- WATCHAPREAGUE

INLET. -- COBB'S ISLAND. -- CHERRYSTONE. -- ARRIVAL AT

NORFOLK. -- THE "LANDMARK'S" ENTERPRISE.

CHAPTER IX. FROM NORFOLK TO CAPE HATTERAS.

THE ELIZABETH RIVER. -- THE CANAL. -- NORTH LANDING

RIVER. -- CURRITUCK SOUND. -- ROANOKE ISLAND. -- VISIT

TO BODY ISLAND LIGHT -- HOUSE. -- A ROMANCE OF

HISTORY. -- PAMPLICO SOUND. -- THE PAPER CANOE ARRIVES

AT CAPE HATTERAS.

CHAPTER X. FROM CAPE HATTERAS TO CAPE FEAR, NORTH CAROLINA.

CAPE HATTERAS LIGHT. -- HABITS OF BIRDS. - STORM AT

HATTERAS INLET. -MILES OF WRECKS. -THE YACHT

JULIA SEARCHING FOR THE PAPER CANOE. -- CHASED BY

PORPOISES. -- MARSH TACKIES. - OCRACOKE INLET. - A

GRAVEYARD BEING SWALLOWED UP BY THE SEA. -- CORE

SOUND. -- THREE WEDDINGS AT HUNTING QUARTERS. -

MOREHEAD CITY. -- NEWBERN. - SWANSBORO. - A PEANUT

PLANTATION. -- THE ROUTE TO CAPE FEAR.

CHAPTER XI. FROM CAPE FEAR TO CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA.

A PORTAGE TO LAKE WACCAMAW. -- SUBMERGED SWAMPS. --

NIGHT AT A TURPENTINE DISTILLERY. -- A DISMAL

WILDERNESS. -- OWLS AND MISTLETOE. -- CRACKERS AND

NEGROES. -- ACROSS THE SOUTH CAROLINA LINE. -- A

CRACKER'S IDEA OF HOSPITALITY. -- POT BLUFF. -- PEEDEE

RIVER. -- GEORGETOWN. -- WINYAH BAY. -- THE RICE

PLANTATIONS OF THE SANTEE RIVERS. -- A NIGHT WITH THE

SANTEE NEGROES. -- ARRIVAL AT CHARLESTON.

CHAPTER XII. FROM CHARLESTON TO SAVANNAH, GEORGIA.

THE INTERIOR WATER ROUTE TO JEHOSSEE ISLAND. --

GOVERNOR AIKEN'S MODEL RICE PLANTATION. -- LOST IN THE

HORNS. -- ST. HELENA SOUND. -- LOST IN THE NIGHT. --

THE PHANTOM SHIP. -- THE FINLANDER'S WELCOME. -- A

NIGHT ON THE EMPEROR'S OLD YACHT. -- THE PHOSPHATE

MINES. -- COOSAW AND BROAD RIVERS. -- PORT ROYAL

SOUND AND CALIBOGUE SOUND. -- CUFFY'S HOME. --

ARRIVAL IN GEORGIA. -- RECEPTIONS AT GREENWICH

SHOOTING-PARK.

CHAPTER XIII. FROM THE SAVANNAH RIVER TO FLORIDA.

ROUTE TO THE SEA ISLANDS OF GEORGIA. -- STORM-BOUND

ON GREEN ISLAND. -- OSSABAW ISLAND. -- ST. CATHERINE'S

SOUND. -- SAPELO ISLAND. -- THE MUD OF MUD RIVER. --

NIGHT IN A NEGRO CABIN. -- "DE SHOUTINGS" ON DOBOY

ISLAND. -- BROUGHTON ISLAND. -- ST. SIMON'S AND JEKYL

ISLANDS. -- INTERVIEW WITH AN ALLIGATOR. -- A NIGHT

IN JOINTER HAMMOCK. -- CUMBERLAND ISLAND AND ST.

MARY'S RIVER. -- FAREWELL TO THE SEA.

CHAPTER XIV. ST. MARYS RIVER AND THE SUWANEE WILDERNESS

A PORTAGE TO DUTTON. -- DESCENT OF THE ST. MARY'S

RIVER. -- FETE GIVEN BY THE CITIZENS TO THE PAPER

CANOE. -- THE PROPOSED CANAL ROUTE ACROSS FLORIDA. -

PORTAGE TO THE SUWANEE RIVER. -- A NEGRO SPEAKS

ON ELECTRICITY AND THE TELEGRAPH. -- A FREEDMAN'S

SERMON.

CHAPTER XV. DOWN UPON THE SUWANEE RIVER.

THE RICH FOLIAGE OF THE RIVER. -- COLUMBUS. - ROLINS'

BLUFF. -- OLD TOWN HAMMOCK. - A HUNTER KILLED BY

A PANTHER. -- DANGEROUS SERPENTS. -- CLAY LANDING. --

THE MARSHES OF THE COAST. -- BRADFORD'S ISLAND. --

MY LAST CAMP. -- THE VOYAGE ENDED.

LIST OF MAPS DRAWN AND ENGRAVED AT THE UNITED STATES

COAST SURVEY BUREAU, FOR THE "VOYAGE OF THE PAPER CANOE."

GENERAL MAP OF ROUTES FOLLOWED BY THE

AUTHOR DURING TWO VOYAGES MADE TO THE GULF

OF MEXICO

GUIDE MAPS OF CANOE ROUTE.

FROM QUEBEC, CANADA, TO PLATTSBURGH, NEW YORK STATE

FROM PLATTSBURGH TO ALBANY

FROM ALBANY TO NEW YORK CITY

FROM NEW YORK CITY TO CAPE HENLOPEN, DELAWARE

FROM CAPE HENLOPEN, DELAWARE, TO NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

FROM NORFOLK, VIRGINIA, TO BOGUE INLET, NORTH CAROLINA

FROM BOGUE INLET, NORTH CAROLINA, TO BULL'S BAY, SOUTH CAROLINA

FROM BULL'S BAY, SOUTH CAROLINA, TO ST. SIMON'S SOUND, GEORGIA

FROM ST. SIMON'S SOUND, GEORGIA, TO CEDAR KEYS, FLORIDA

ILLUSTRATIONS. ENGRAVED By John ANDREW & SON.

GREAT AUK (Alca impennis). Extinct.

ANCHORED AT LAST

A FULL-RIGGED NAUTILUS CANOE

THE ROB ROY CANOE

THE ABORIGINAL TYPE

Photographed at Disco, Greenland.

THE IMPROVED TYPE. -- PAPER CANOE MARIA THERESA

A CAPSIZE IN DELAWARE BAY

DELAWARE WHIPPING-POST AND PILLORY

BODY ISLAND LIGHT HOUSE

CROSSING HATTERAS INLET

RECEPTION AT CHARLESTON POST-OFFICE

HOME OF THE ALLIGATOR

THE PANTHER'S LEAP

THE VOYAGE ENDED

CHAPTER I. THE APPROACHES TO THE WATER-WAY OF THE CONTINENT.

ISLAND OF ST. PAUL. -- THE PORTALS OF THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE. --

THE EXTINCT AUK. -- ANTICOSTI ISLAND. --

ICEBERGS. -- SAILORS' SUPERSTITIONS. -- THE ESTUARY OF THE

ST. LAWRENCE. -- TADOUSAC. -- THE SAGUENAY RIVER. -- WHITE WHALES. -- QUEBEC.

While on his passage to the ports of the

St. Lawrence River, the mariner first

sights the little island of St. Paul, situated in

the waste of waters between Cape Ray, the

southwestern point of Newfoundland on the north,

and Cape North, the northeastern projection of

Cape Breton Island on the south. Across this

entrance to the Gulf of St. Lawrence from cape

to cape is a distance of fifty-four nautical miles;

and about twelve miles east-northeast from Cape

North the island of St. Paul, with its three hills

and two light-towers, rises from the sea with

deep waters on every side.

This wide inlet into the gulf may be called the

middle portal, for at the northern end of

Newfoundland, between the great island and the

coast of Labrador, another entrance exists,

which is known as the Straits of Belle Isle,

and is sometimes called "the shorter passage

from England." Still to the south of the

middle entrance is another and a very narrow one,

known as the Gut of Canso, which separates

the island of Cape Breton from Nova Scotia.

Through this contracted thoroughfare the tides

run with great force.

One hundred years ago, as the seaman

approached the dangerous entrance of St. Paul,

now brightened at night by its light-towers, his

heart was cheered by the sight of immense

flocks of a peculiar sea-fowl, now extinct.

When he saw upon the water the Great Auk

(Alca impennis), which he ignorantly called

"a pengwin," he knew that land was near at

hand, for while he met other species far out

upon the broad Atlantic, the Great Auk, his

"pengwin," kept near the coast. Not only was

this now extinct bird his indicator of proximity

to the land, but so strange were its habits, and

so innocent was its nature, that it permitted

itself to be captured by boat-loads; and thus

were the ships re-victualled at little cost or

trouble. Without any market-value a century

ago, the Great Auk now, as a stuffed skin,

represents a value of fifteen hundred dollars in

gold. There are but seventy-two specimens of

this bird in the museums of Europe and

America, besides a few skeletons, and sixty-five of its

eggs. It was called in ancient days Gare-fowl,

and was the Goiful of the Icelander.

Captain Whitbourne, who wrote in the reign

of James the First, quaintly said: "These

Pengwins are as bigge as Geese, and flye not, for

they have but a little short wing, and they

multiply so infinitely upon a certain flat island that

men drive them from thence upon a board into

their boats by hundreds at a time, as if God had

made the innocency of so poor a creature to

become such an admerable instrument for the

sustenation of man."

In a copy of the English Pilot, "fourth book,"

published in 1761, which I presented to the

library of the United States Coast Survey, is

found this early description of this now extinct

American bird: "They never go beyond the

bank [Newfoundland] as others do, for they are

always on it, or in it, several of them together,

sometimes more but never less than two

together. They are large fowls, about the size

a goose, a coal-black head and back, with a

white belly and a milk-white spot under one of

their eyes, which nature has ordered to be under

their right eye."

Thus has the greed of the sailor and

pothunter swept from the face of the earth an old

pilot -- a trusty aid to navigation. Now the

light-house, the fog-gun, and the improved chart

have taken the place of the extinct auk as aids

to navigation, and the sailor of to-day sees the

bright flashes of St. Paul's lights when nearly

twenty miles at sea. Having passed the little

isle, the ship enters the great Gulf of St.

Lawrence, and passes the Magdalen Islands, shaping

its course as wind and weather permit towards

the dreaded, rocky coast of Anticosti. From the

entrance of the gulf to the island of Anticosti

the course to be followed is northwesterly about

one hundred and thirty-five nautical miles. The

island which divides an upper arm of the gulf

into two wide channels is one hundred and

twenty-three miles long, and from ten to thirty

miles wide. Across the entrance of this great

arm, or estuary, from the high cape of Gaspe

on the southern shore of the mainland to

Anticosti in the narrowest place, is a distance of

about forty miles, and is called the South

Channel. From the north side of the island and near

its west end to the coast of Labrador the North

Channel is fifteen miles wide. The passage from

St. Paul to Anticosti is at times dangerous. Here

is an area of strong currents, tempestuous winds,

and dense fogs. When the wind is fair for an

upward run, it is the wind which usually brings

misty weather. Then, from the icy regions of

the Arctic circle, from the Land of Desolation,

come floating through the Straits of Belle Isle

the dangerous bergs and ice-fields. Early in the

spring these ice rafts are covered with colonies

of seals which resort to them for the purpose of

giving birth to their young. On these icy

cradles, rocked by the restless waves, tens of

thousands of young seals are nursed for a few days;

then, answering the loud calls of their mothers,

they accompany them into the briny deep, there

to follow the promptings of their instincts. The

loud roarings of the old seals on these ice rafts

can be heard in a quiet night for several miles,

and strike terror into the hearts of the

superstitious sailor who is ignorant of the origin of

the tumult.

Frequently dense fogs cover the water, and

while slowly moving along, guided only by the

needle, a warning sound alarms the watchful

master. Through the heavy mists comes the

roar of breaking waters. He listens. The dull,

swashy noise of waves meeting with resistance

is now plainly heard. The atmosphere becomes

suddenly chilled: it is the breath of the

iceberg!

Then the shrill cry of "All hands on deck!"

startles the watch below from the bunks.

Anxiously now does the whole ship's company lean

upon the weather-rail and peer out into the thick

air with an earnestness born of terror. "Surely,"

says the master to his mate, "I am past the

Magdalens, and still far from Anticosti, yet we have

breakers; which way can we turn?" The riddle

solves itself; for out of the gloom come whitened

walls, beautiful but terrible to behold.

Those terror-stricken sailors watch the slowly

moving berg as it drifts past their vessel, fearing

that their own ship will be drawn towards it

from the peculiar power of attraction they believe

the iceberg to possess. And as they watch,

against the icy base of the mountain in the sea

the waves beat and break as if expending their

forces upon a rocky shore. Down the furrowed

sides of the disintegrating berg streamlets trickle,

and miniature cascades leap, mingling their

waters with the briny sea. The intruder slowly

drifts out of sight, disappearing in the gloom,

while the sailor thanks his lucky stars that he has

rid himself of another danger. The ill-omened

Anticosti, the graveyard of many seamen, is yet

to he passed. The ship skirts along its southern

shore, a coast destitute of bays or harbors of

any kind, rock-bound and inhospitable.

Wrecks of vessels strew the rocky shores, and

four light-houses warn the mariner of danger.

Once past the island the ship is well within the

estuary of the gulf into which the St. Lawrence

River flows, contributing the waters of the great

lakes of the continent to the sea. As the north

coast is approached the superstitious sailor is

again alarmed if perchance, the compass-needle

shows sympathy with some disturbing element,

the cause of which he believes to exist in the

mountains which rise along the shore. He

repeats the stories of ancient skippers, of vessels

having been lured out of their course by the

deviation of the guiding-needle, which

succumbed to the potent influence exerted in those

hills of iron ore; heeding not the fact that the

disturbing agent is the iron on board of his own

ship, and not the magnetic oxide of the distant

mines.

The ship being now within the estuary of the

St. Lawrence River, must encounter many risks

before she reaches the true mouth of the river,

at the Bic Islands.

The shores along this arm of the gulf are wild

and sombre. Rocky precipices frown upon the

swift tidal current that rushes past their bases.

A few small settlements of fishermen and pilots,

like Metis, Father Point, and Rimousky, are

discovered at long intervals along the coast.

In these St. Lawrence hamlets, and

throughout Lower Canada, a patois is spoken which is

unintelligible to the Londoner or Parisian; and

these villagers, the descendants of the French

colonists, may be said to be a people destitute

of a written language, and strangers to a

literature.

While holding a commission from Francis the

First, king of France, Jacques Cartier discovered

the Gulf of St. Lawrence, during his first

voyage of exploration in the new world. He

entered the gulf on St. Lawrence's day, in the

spring of 1534, and named it in honor of the

event. Cartier explored no farther to the west

than about the mouth of the estuary which is

divided by the island of Anticosti. It was

during his second voyage, in the following year,

that he discovered and explored the great river.

Of the desolate shores of Labrador, on the

north coast, he said, "It might as well as not

be taken for the country assigned by God to

Cain."

The distance from Quebec to Cape Gaspe,

measured upon a course which a steamer would

be compelled to take, is four hundred and seven

statute miles. The ship first enters the current

of the river St. Lawrence at the two Bic

Islands, where it has a width of about twenty

miles. By consulting most maps the reader will

find that geographers carry the river nearly two

hundred miles beyond its usual current. In fact,

they appropriate the whole estuary, which, in

places, is nearly one hundred miles in width,

and call it a river -- a river which lacks the

characteristics of a river, the currents of which

vary with the winds and tidal influences, and

the waters of which are as salt as those of the

briny deep.

Here, in the mouth of the river, at the Bics,

secure anchorage for vessels may be found; but

below, in the estuary, for a distance of more

than two hundred and forty-five miles, to Gaspe,

there is but one port of refuge, that of Seven

Islands, on the north coast.

As the ship ascends the river from Bic Islands,

a passage of about one hundred and sixty statute

miles to Quebec, she struggles against a strong

current. Picturesque islands and little villages,

such as St. Andre, St. Anne, St. Rogue, St. Jean,

and St. Thomas, relieve the monotony. But very

different is the winter aspect of this river, when

closed to navigation by ice from November until

Spring. Of the many tributaries which give

strength to the current of the St. Lawrence and

contribute to its glory, the Saguenay River with

its remarkable scenery is counted one of the

wonders of our continent. It joins the great

river from the north shore, about one hundred

and thirty-four statute miles below Quebec.

Upon the left bank, at its mouth, nestles the

little village of Tadousac, the summer retreat

of the governor-general of the Dominion of

Canada.

American history claims for the Roman

Catholic church of this settlement an age second

only to that of the old Spanish cathedral at St.

Augustine, Florida. For three hundred years

the storms of winter have beaten upon its walls,

but it stands a silent yet eloquent monument of

the pious zeal of the ancient Fathers, who came

to conquer Satan in the wilderness of a new

world. The Saguenay has become the "Mecca"

of northern tourists, ever attracting them with

its wild and fascinating scenery. Capes Eternity

and Trinity guard the entrance to Eternity Bay.

The first towers sublimely to a height of

eighteen hundred feet, the other is only a little

lower. A visit to this mysterious river, with its

deep, dark waters and picturesque views, will

repay the traveller for the discomforts of a long

and expensive journey.

Where the turbulent current of the Saguenay

mingles angrily with that of the St. Lawrence,

there may be seen disporting in the waves the

white whale of aquariums, which is not a whale

at all, but a true porpoise (Delphinopterus

Catodon, as he is now called by naturalists), having

teeth in the jaws, and being destitute of the

fringed bone of the whalebone whales. This

interesting creature is very abundant in the

Arctic Ocean on both the Atlantic and Pacific sides,

and has its southern limits in the Gulf of St.

Lawrence, although one is occasionally seen in

the Bay of Fundy, and it is reported to have

been observed about Cape Cod, on the

Massachusetts coast.

As the ship nears the first great port of the

St. Lawrence River, the large and well

cultivated island of Orleans is passed, and the bold

fortifications of Quebec, high up on the face of

Point Diamond, and flanked by the houses of the

French city, break upon the vision of the mariner.

To the right, and below the city, which

Champlain founded, and in which his unknown

ashes repose, are the beautiful Falls of

Montmorency, gleaming in all the whiteness of their

falling waters and mists, like the bridal veil of a

giantess. The vessel has safely made her

passage, and now comes to anchor in the Basin of

Quebec. The sails are furled, and the heart of

the sailor is merry, for the many dangers which

beset the ship while approaching and entering

the great water-way of the continent are now

over.

CHAPTER II. FROM QUEBEC TO SOREL

THE WATER-WAY INTO THE CONTINENT. -- THE WESTERN AND

THE SOUTHERN ROUTE TO THE GULF OF MEXICO. -- THE MAYETA.

-- COMMENCEMENT OF THE VOYAGE. -- ASCENT OF THE RIVER

ST. LAWRENCE. -- LAKE OF ST. PETER. -- ACADIAN TOWN OF

SOREL

The canoe traveller can ascend the St.

Lawrence River to Lake Ontario, avoiding the

rapids and shoals by making use of seven canals

of a total length of forty-seven miles. He may

then skirt the shores of Lake Ontario, and enter

Lake Erie by the canal which passes around the

celebrated Falls of Niagara. From the last great

inland sea he can visit lakes Huron, Michigan,

and, with the assistance of a short canal, the

grandest of all, Superior. When he has reached

the town of Duluth, at the southwestern end of

Superior, which is the terminus of the Northern

Pacific Railroad, our traveller will have paddled

(following the contours of the land) over two

thousand miles from salt water into the

American continent without having been compelled to

make a portage with his little craft. Let him

now make his first portage westward, over the

road one hundred and fifteen miles from

Duluth to the crossing of the Mississippi River at

Brainerd, and launch his boat on the Father of

Waters, which he may descend with but few

interruptions to below the Falls of St. Anthony,

at Minneapolis; or, if he will take his boat by

rail from Duluth, one hundred and fifty-five miles,

to St. Paul, he can launch his canoe, and follow

the steamboat to the Gulf of Mexico. This is

the longest, and may be called the canoeist's

western route to the great Southern Sea. In

St. Louis County, Minnesota, the water from

"Seven Beaver Lakes" flows south-southwest,

and joins the Flood-Wood River; there taking

an easterly course towards Duluth, it empties

into Lake Superior. This is the St. Louis River,

the first tributary of the mighty St. Lawrence

system. From the head waters of the St. Louis

to the mouth of the St. Lawrence at Bic Islands,

where it enters the great estuary, the length of

this great water system, including the great

Lakes, is about two thousand miles. The area thus

drained by the St. Lawrence River is nearly six

millions of square miles. The largest craft can

ascend it to Quebec, and smaller ones to

Montreal; above which city, navigation being

impeded by rapids, the seven canals before

mentioned have been constructed that vessels may

avoid this danger while voyaging to Lake Ontario.

The southern and shorter coast route to the

gulf leaves the great river at the Acadian town

of Sorel, where the quiet Richelieu flows into

the St. Lawrence River. Of the two long routes

offered me I selected the southern, leaving the

other to be traversed at some future time. To

follow the contours of rivers, bays, and sounds,

a voyage of at least twenty-five hundred miles

was before me. It was my intention to explore

the connecting watercourses southward, without

making a single portage, as far as Cape

Henlopen, a sandy headland at the entrance of

Delaware Bay; there, by making short portages from

one watercourse to another, to navigate along

the interior of the Atlantic coast to the St. Mary's

River, which is a dividing line between Georgia

and Florida. From the Atlantic coast of

southern Georgia, I proposed to cross the peninsula

of Florida by way of the St. Mary's River, to

Okefenokee Swamp; thence, by portage, to the

Suwanee River, and by descending that stream

(the boundary line of a geographical division --

eastern and middle Florida), to reach the coast

of the Gulf of Mexico, which was to be the

terminal point of my canoe journey. Charts, maps

and sea-faring men had informed me that about

twenty-three hundred miles of the trip could be

made upon land-locked waters, but about two

hundred miles of voyaging must be done upon

the open Atlantic Ocean.

As I now write, I smilingly remember how

erroneous were my advisers; for, while

prosecuting my voyage, I was but once upon the open

sea and then through mistake and for only a

few minutes. Had I then known that I could

have followed the whole route in a small boat

upon strictly interior waters, I should have

paddled from the Basin of Quebec in the light

paper canoe which I afterwards adopted at Troy,

and which carried me alone in safety two

thousand miles to the warm regions of the Gulf of

Mexico. The counsels of old seamen had

influenced me to adopt a large wooden clinker-built,

decked canoe, eighteen feet long, forty-five inches

beam, and twenty-four inches depth of hold,

which weighed, with oars, rudder, mast and sail,

above three hundred pounds. The Mayeta was

built by an excellent workman, Mr. J. S.

Lamson, at Bordentown, New Jersey. The boat was

sharp at each end, and the lines from amidships

to stem, and from amidships to stempost, were

alike. She possessed that essential characteristic

of seaworthiness, abundant sheer. The deck was

pierced for a cockpit in the centre, which was

six feet long and surrounded by a high combing

to keep out water. The builder had done his

best to make the Mayeta serve for rowing and

sailing -- a most difficult combination, and one

not usually successful.

On the morning of July 4, 1874, I entered

the Basin of Quebec with my wooden canoe

and my waterman, one David Bodfish, a

"shoreman" of New Jersey. After weeks of

preparation and weary travel by rail and by water, we

had steamed up the Gulf and the River of St.

Lawrence to this our most northern point of

departure. We viewed the frowning heights

upon which was perched the city of Quebec

with unalloyed pleasure, and eagerly scrambled

up the high banks to see the interesting old city.

The tide, which rises at the city piers eighteen

feet in the spring, during the neaps reaches only

thirteen feet. Late in the afternoon the

incoming tide promised to assist us in ascending the

river, the downward current of which runs with

torrent-like velocity, and with a depth abreast

the city of from sixteen to twenty fathoms.

Against this current powerful steamers run one

hundred and eighty miles up the river to

Montreal in eighteen hours, and descend in fourteen

hours, including two hours' stoppages at Sorel

and Three Rivers. At six o'clock P. M. we

pushed off into the river, which is about

two-thirds of a mile wide at this point, and

commenced our voyage; but fierce gusts of wind

arose and drove us to the shelter of Mr.

Hamilton's lumber-yard on the opposite shore, where

we passed the night, sleeping comfortably upon

cushions which we spread on the narrow floor

of the boat. Sunday was to be spent in camp;

but when dawn appeared we were not allowed

build a fire on the lumber pier, and were

forced to ascend the St. Lawrence in quest of a

retired spot above the landing of St. Croix, on

the right bank of the river. The tide had been

a high one when we beached our boat at the foot

of a bluff. Two hours later the receding tide

left us a quarter of a mile from the current.

The river was fully two miles wide at this point,

and so powerful was its current that steamers

anchored in it were obliged to keep their wheels

slowly revolving to ease the strain on their

anchors. Early on Monday morning we beheld

with consternation that the tide did not reach

our boat, and by dint of hard labor we

constructed a railroad from a neighboring fence,

and moved the Mayeta on rollers upon it over

the mud and the projecting reef of rocks some

five hundred feet to the water, then embarking,

rowed close along the shore to avoid the current.

A deep fog settled down upon us, and we were

driven to camp again on the left bank, where a

cataract tumbled over the rocks fifty or more

feet. Tuesday was a sunny day, but the usual

head wind greeted us. The water would rise

along-shore on the flood three hours before the

downward current was checked in the channel

of the river. We could not place any

dependence in the regularity of the tides, as strong

winds and freshets in the tributaries influence

them. Earlier in the season, as a writer

remarks, "until the upland waters have all run

down, and the great rivers have discharged the

freshets caused by thawing of the snows in the

spring of the year, this current, in spite of tides,

will always run down." To the uninitiated the

spectacle is a curious one, of the flood tide rising

and swelling the waters of a great river some

eight to ten feet, while the current at the surface

is rapidly descending the course of the stream.

Finding that the wind usually rose and fell

with the sun, we now made it a rule to anchor

our boat during most of the day and pull against

the current at night. The moon and the bright

auroral lights made this task an agreeable one.

Then, too, we had Coggia's comet speeding

through the northern heavens, awakening many

an odd conjecture in the mind of my old salt.

In this high latitude day dawned before three

o'clock, and the twilight lingered so long that

we could read the fine print of a newspaper

without effort at a quarter to nine o'clock P. M.

The lofty shores that surrounded us at Quebec

gradually decreased in elevation, and the tides

affected the river less and less as we approached

Three Rivers, where they seemed to cease

altogether. We reached the great lumber station

of Three Rivers, which is located on the left

bank of the St. Lawrence, on Friday evening,

and moved our canoe into quiet waters near the

entrance of Lake of St. Peter. Rain squalls

kept us close under our hatch-cloth till eleven

o'clock A. M. on Saturday, when, the wind being

fair, we determined to make an attempt to reach

Sorel, which would afford us a pleasant

camping-ground for Sunday.

Lake of St. Peter is a shoal sheet of water

twenty-two miles long and nearly eight miles

wide, a bad place to cross in a small boat in

windy weather. We set our sail and sped

merrily on, but the tempest pressed us sorely,

compelling us to take in our sail and scud under

bare poles until one o'clock, when we

double-reefed and set the sail. We now flew over the

short and swashy seas as blast after blast struck

our little craft. At three o'clock the wind

slackened, permitting us to shake out our reefs and

crowd on all sail. A labyrinth of islands closed

the lake at its western end, and we looked with

anxiety to find among them an opening through

which we might pass into the river St.

Lawrence again. At five o'clock the wind veered

to the north, with squalls increasing in intensity.

We steered for a low, grassy island, which

seemed to separate us from the river. The wind

was not free enough to permit us to weather it,

so we decided to beach the boat and escape the

furious tempest. But when we struck the marshy

island we kept moving on through the rushes

that covered it, and fairly sailed over its

submerged soil into the broad water on the other

side. Bodfish earnestly advised the propriety of

anchoring here for the night, saying, "It is too

rough to go on;" but the temptation held out

by the proximity to Sorel determined me to

take the risk and drive on. Again we bounded

out upon rough water, with the screeching

tempest upon us. David took the tiller, while I sat

upon the weather-rail to steady the boat. The

Mayeta was now to be put to a severe test; she

was to cross seas that could easily trip a boat of

her size; but the wooden canoe was worthy of

her builder, and flew like an affrighted bird over

the foaming waves across the broad water, to

the shelter of a wooded, half submerged island,

out of which rose, on piles, a little light-house.

Under this lee we crept along in safety. The

sail was furled, never to be used in storm again.

The wind went down with the sinking sun, and

a delightful calm favored us for our row up the

narrowing river, eight miles to the place of

destination.

Soon after nine o'clock we came upon the

Acadian town, Sorel, with its bright lights

cheerily flashing out upon us as we rowed past its

river front. The prow of our canoe was now

pointed southward toward the goal of our

ambition, the great Mexican Gulf; and we were about

to ascend that historic stream, the lovely

Richelieu, upon whose gentle current, two hundred

and sixty-six years before, Champlain had

ascended to the noble lake which bears his name,

and up which the missionary Jogues had been

carried an unwilling captive to bondage and to

torture.

We ascended the Richelieu, threading our

way among steam-tugs, canal-boats, and rafts,

to a fringe of rushes growing out of a shallow

flat on the left bank of the river, just above

the town. There, firmly staking the Mayeta

upon her soft bed of mud, secure from danger,

we enjoyed a peaceful rest through the calm

night which followed; and thus ended the rough

passage of one week's duration -- from Quebec

to Sorel.

CHAPTER III. FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER TO TICONDEROGA, LAKE CHAMPLAIN.

THE RICHELIEU RIVER. -- ACADIAN SCENES. - ST. OURS.-- ST.

ANTOINE. -- ST. MARKS. -- BELCEIL. -- CHAMELY CANAL. -- ST.

JOHNS. -- LAKE CHAMPLAIN. THE GREAT SHIP-CANAL. --

DAVID BODFISH 'S CAMP. -- THE ADIRONDACK SURVEY. -- A

CANVAS BOAT. -- DIMENSIONS OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN. -- PORT

KENT. -- AUSABLE CHASM. -- ARRIVAL AT TICONDEROGA.

Quebec was founded by Champlain, July 3,

1680. During his first warlike expedition

into the land of the Iroquois the following year,

escorted by Algonquin and Montagnais Indian

allies, he ascended a river to which was

afterwards given the name of Cardinal Richelieu,

prime minister of Louis XIII. of France. This

stream, which is about eighty miles long,

connects the lake (which Champlain discovered

and named after himself) with the St. Lawrence

River at a point one hundred and forty miles

above Quebec, and forty miles below Montreal.

The waters of lakes George and Champlain

flow northward, through the Richelieu River

into the St. Lawrence. The former stream flows

through a cultivated country, and upon its banks,

after leaving Sorel, are situate the little towns

of St. Ours, St. Rock, St. Denis, St. Antoine, St.

Marks, Beloeil, Chambly, and St. Johns. Small

steamers, tug-boats, and rafts pass from the St.

Lawrence to Lake Champlain (which lies almost

wholly within the United States), following the

Richelieu to Chambly, where it is necessary, to

avoid rapids and shoals, to take the canal that

follows the river's bank twelve miles to St. Johns,

where the Canadian custom-house is located.

Sorel is called William Henry by the Anglo-Saxon

Canadians. The paper published in this

town of seven thousand inhabitants is La

Gazette de Sorel. The river which flows past the

town is called, without authority, by some

geographers, Sorel River, and by others St. Johns,

because the town nearest its source is St. Johns,

and another town at its mouth is Sorel. There

are about one hundred English-speaking families

in Sorel. The American Waterhouse Machinery

supplies the town with water pumped from the

river at a cost of one ton of coal per day. At

ten o'clock on Monday morning we resumed

our journey up the Richelieu, the current of

which was nothing compared with that of the

great river we had left. The average width of

the stream was about a quarter of a mile, and the

grassy shores were made picturesque by groves

of trees and quaintly constructed farm-houses.

It was a rich, pastoral land, abounding in fine

herds of cattle. The country reminded me of

the Acadian region of Grand Pre, which I had

visited during the earlier part of the season.

Here, as there, were delightful pastoral scenes

and rich verdure; but here we still had the

Acadian peasants, while in the land of beautiful

Evangeline no longer were they to be found,

The New Englander now holds the titles to

those deserted old farms of the scattered

colonists. Our rowing was frequently interrupted

by heavy showers, which drove us under our

hatch-cloth for protection. The same large,

two-steepled stone churches, with their

unpainted tin roofs glistening like silver in the sunlight,

marked out here, as on the high banks of the

St. Lawrence River, the site of a village.

Twelve miles of rowing brought us to St. Ours,

where we rested for the night, after wandering

through its shaded and quaint streets. The

village boys and girls came down to see us off the

next morning, waving their kerchiefs, and

shouting "Bon voyage!" Two miles above the town

we encountered a dam three feet high, which

deepened the water on a shoal above it. We

passed through a single lock in company with

rafts of pine logs which were on the way to New

York, to be used for spars. A lockage fee of

twenty-five cents for our boat the lock-master

told us would be collected at Chambly Basin.

It was a pull of nearly six miles to St. Denis,

where the same scene of comfort and plenty

prevailed. Women were washing clothes in large

iron pots at the river's edge, and the hum of the

spinning-wheels issued from the doorways of

the farm-houses. Beehives in the well-stocked

gardens were filled with honey, and the

strawthatched barns had their doors thrown wide

open, as though waiting to receive the harvest.

At intervals along the highway, over the grassy

hills, tall, white wooden crosses were erected;

for this people, like the Acadians of old, are very

religious. Down the current floated "pin-flats,"

a curious scow-like boat, which carries a square

sail, and makes good time only when running

before the wind. St. Antoine and St. Marks

were passed, and the isolated peak of St. Hilaire

loomed up grandly twelve hundred feet on the

right bank of the Richelieu, opposite the town

Beloeil. One mile above Beloeil the Grand

Trunk Railroad crosses the stream, and here we

passed the night. Strong winds and rain squalls

interrupted our progress. At Chambly Basin

we tarried until the evening of July 16, before

entering the canal. Chambly is a

watering-place for Montreal people, who come here to

enjoy the fishing, which is said to be fair.

We had ascended one water-step at St. Ours.

Here we had eight steps to ascend within the

distance of one mile. By means of eight locks,

each one hundred and ten feet long by

twenty-two wide, the Mayeta was lifted seventy-five

feet and one inch in height to the upper level of

the canal. The lock-masters were courteous,

and wished us the usual "Bon voyage!" This

canal was built thirty-four years prior to my visit.

By ten o'clock P. M. We had passed the last lock,

and went into camp in a depression in the bank

of the canal. The journey was resumed at half

past three o'clock the following morning, and

the row of twelve miles to St. Johns was a

delightful one. The last lock (the only one at St.

Johns) was passed, and we had a full clearance

at the Dominion custom-house before noon.

We were again on the Richelieu, with about

twenty-three miles between us and the boundary

line of the United States and Canada, and with

very little current to impede us. As dusk

approached we passed a dismantled old fort,

situated upon an island called Ile aux Noix, and

entered a region inhabited by the large bull-frog,

where we camped for the night, amid the

dolorous voices of these choristers. On Saturday,

the 18th, at an early hour, we were pulling for

the United States, which was about six miles

from our camping-ground. The Richelieu

widened, and we entered Lake Champlain, passing

Fort Montgomery, which is about one thousand

feet south of the boundary line. Champlain has

a width of three fourths of a mile at Fort

Montgomery, and at Rouse's Point expands to two

miles and three quarters. The erection of the

fort was commenced soon after 1812, but in

1818 the work was suspended, as some one

discovered that the site was in Canada, and the

cognomen of Fort Blunder was applied. In the

Webster treaty of 1842, England ceded the

ground to the United States, and Fort

Montgomery was finished at a cost of over half a

million of dollars.

At Rouse's Point, which lies on the west shore

of Lake Champlain about one and one-half miles

south of its confluence with the Richelieu, the

Mayeta was inspected by the United States

custom-house officer, and nothing contraband being

discovered, the little craft was permitted to

continue her voyage.

At the northern end of the harbor of Rouse's

Point is the terminus of the Ogdensburg and the

Champlain and St. Lawrence railroads. The

Vermont Central Railroad connects with the

above by means of a bridge twenty-two hundred

feet in length, which crosses the lake. Before

proceeding further it may interest the reader of

practical mind to know that a very important

movement is on foot to facilitate the navigation

of vessels between the great Lakes, St. Lawrence

River, and Champlain, by the construction of

a ship-canal. The Caughnawaga Ship Canal

Company, "incorporated by special act of the

Dominion of Parliament of Canada, 12th May,

1870," (capital, three million dollars; shares, one

hundred dollars each,) with a board of directors

composed of citizens of the United States and

Canada, has issued its prospectus, from which I

extract the following:

"The commissioners of public works, in

their report of 1859, approved by government,

finally settled the question of route, by declaring

that, 'after a patient and mature consideration of

all the surveys and reports, we are of opinion

that the line following the Chambly Canal and

then crossing to Lake St. Louis near

Caughnawaga, is that which combines and affords in the

greatest degree all the advantages contemplated

by this improvement, and which has been

approved by Messrs. Mills, Swift, and Gamble.'

"The company's Act of Incorporation is in

every respect complete and comprehensive in its

details. It empowers the company to survey, to

take, appropriate, have and hold, to and for the

use of them and their successors, the line and

boundaries of a canal between the St. Lawrence

and Lake Champlain, to build and erect the

same, to select such sites as may be necessary

for basins and docks, as may be considered

expedient by the directors, and to purchase and

dispose of same, with any water-power, as may

be deemed best by the directors for the use and

profit of the company.

"It also empowers the company to cause their

canal to enter into the Chambly Canal, and to

widen, deepen, and enlarge the same, not less in

size than the present St. Lawrence canals; also

the company may take, hold, and use any

portion of the Chambly Canal, and the works

therewith connected, and all the tolls, receipts, and

revenues thereof, upon terms to be settled and

agreed upon between the company and the

governor in council.

"The cost of the canal, with locks of three

hundred feet by forty-five, and with ten feet six

inches the mitre-sill, is now estimated at two

million five hundred thousand dollars, and the

time for its construction may not exceed two

years after breaking ground.

"Probably no question is of more vital

importance to Canada and the western and eastern

United States than the subject of transportation.

The increasing commerce of the Great West, the

rapidity with which the population has of late

flowed into that vast tract of country to the west

and northwest of lakes Erie, Michigan, Huron,

and Superior, have served to convince all

well-informed commercial men that the means of

transit between that country and the seaboard

are far too limited even for the present

necessities of trade; hence it becomes a question of

universal interest how the products of the field, the

mine, and the forest can be most cheaply

forwarded to the consumer. Near the geographical

centre of North America is a vast plateau two

thousand feet above the level of the sea, drained

by the Mississippi to the south, by the St.

Lawrence to the east and by the Saskatchewan and

McKenzie to the north. This vast territory

would have been valueless but for the water

lines which afford cheap transport between it

and the great markets of the world.

"Canada has improved the St. Lawrence by

canals round the rapids of the St. Lawrence, and

by the Welland Canal, connecting lakes Erie and

Ontario, twenty-eight miles in length with a fall

of two hundred and sixty feet, capable of

passing vessels of four hundred tons. The St.

Lawrence, from the east end of Lake Ontario, has a

fall of two hundred and twenty feet, overcome

by seven short canals of an aggregate length of

forty-seven miles, capable of passing vessels of

six hundred and fifty tons. The Richelieu River

is connected with Lake Champlain by a canal

of twelve miles from Chambly. A canal of one

mile in length, at the outlet of Lake Superior,

connects that lake with Lake Huron, and has

two locks, which will pass vessels of two

thousand tons. New York has built a canal from

Buffalo, on Lake Erie, and from Oswego, on

Lake Ontario, to Albany, on the Hudson River,

of three hundred and sixty and of two hundred

and nine miles, capable of passing boats of two

hundred and ten tons; and she has also

constructed a canal from the Hudson River into

Lake Champlain of sixty-five miles, which can

pass boats of eighty tons.

"Such is the nature of the navigation between

tide-water on the Hudson and St. Lawrence and

the upper lakes. The magnitude of the

commerce of the Northwest has compelled the

enlargement of the Erie and Oswego canals from

boats of seventy-eight to two hundred and ten

tons, while the St. Lawrence and Welland canals

have also been enlarged since their first

construction. A further enlargement of the Erie

and Champlain canals is now strongly urged in

consequence of the want of the necessary

facilities of transport for the ever increasing western

trade. The object of the Caughnawaga Ship-canal

is to connect Lake Champlain with the St.

Lawrence by the least possible distance, and

with the smallest amount of lockage. When

built, it will enable the vessel or propeller to

sail from the head of lakes Superior or Michigan

without breaking bulk, and will enable such

vessels to land and receive cargo at Burlington and

Whitehall, from whence western freights can be

carried to and from Boston, and throughout New

England, by railway cheaper than by any other

route.

"It will possess the advantage, when the

Welland Canal is enlarged and the locks of the St.

Lawrence Canal lengthened, of passing vessels

of eight hundred and fifty tons' burden, and with

that size of vessel (impossible on any other route)

of improved model, with facilities for loading and

discharging cargoes at both ends of the route, in

the length of the voyage without transshipment,

in having the least distance between any of

the lake ports and a seaport, and in having the

shortest length of taxed canal navigation. The

Construction of the Caughnawaga Canal, when

carried out, will remedy the difficulties which

now exist and stand in the way of an

uninterrupted water communication between the

western states and the Atlantic seaboard."

From Rouse's Point we proceeded to a

picturesque point which jutted into the lake below

Chazy Landing, and was sheltered by a grove

of trees into which we hauled the Mayeta.

Bodfish's woodcraft enabled him to construct a

wigwam out of rails and rubber blankets, where we

quietly resided until Monday morning. The

owner of the point, Mr. Trombly, invited us to

dinner on Sunday, and exhibited samples of a

ton of maple sugar which he had made from the

sap of one thousand trees.

On Monday, July 20th, we rowed southward.

Our route now skirted the western shore of

Lake Champlain, which is the eastern boundary

of the great Adirondack wilderness. Several of

the tributaries of the lake take their rise in this

region, which is being more and more visited

by the hunter, the fisherman, the artist, and the

tourist, as its natural attractions are becoming

known to the public. The geodetical survey

of the northern wilderness of New York state,

known as the Adirondack country, under the

efficient and energetic labors of Mr. Verplanck

Colvin, will cover an area of nearly five

thousand square miles. In his report of the great

work he eloquently says:

"The Adirondack wilderness may be

considered the wonder and the glory of New York.

It is a vast natural park, one immense and

silent forest, curiously and beautifully broken

by the gleaming waters of a myriad of lakes,

between which rugged mountain-ranges rise as

a sea of granite billows. At the northeast the

mountains culminate within an area of some

hundreds of square miles; and here savage,

treeless peaks, towering above the timber line, crowd

one another, and, standing gloomily shoulder to

shoulder, rear their rocky crests amid the frosty

clouds. The wild beasts may look forth from

the ledges on the mountain-sides over unbroken

woodlands stretching beyond the reach of sight

-- beyond the blue, hazy ridges at the horizon.

The voyager by the canoe beholds lakes in

which these mountains and wild forests are

reflected like inverted reality; now wondrous

in their dark grandeur and solemnity, now

glorious in resplendent autumn color of pearly

beauty. Here -- thrilling sound to huntsman --

echoes the wild melody of the hound,

awakening the solitude with deep-mouthed bay as he

pursues the swift career of deer. The quavering

note of the loon on the lake, the mournful hoot

of the owl at night, with rarer forest voices

have also to the lover of nature their peculiar

charm, and form the wild language of this forest.

"It is this region of lakes and mountains --

whose mountain core is well shown by the

illustration, 'the heart of the Adirondacks' -- that

our citizens desire to reserve forever as a public

forest park, not only as a resort of rest for

themselves and for posterity, but for weighty reasons of

political economy. For reservoirs of water for the

canals and rivers; for the amelioration of spring

floods by the preservation of the forests

sheltering the deep winter snows; for the salvation of

the timber, -- our only cheap source of lumber

supply should the Canadian and western markets

be ruined by fires, or otherwise lost to us, -- its

preservation as a state forest is urgently

demanded. To the number of those chilly peaks amid

which our principal rivers take their rise, I have

added by measurement a dozen or more over

four thousand feet in height, which were before

either nameless, or only vaguely known by the

names given them by hunters and trappers.

"It is well to note that the final hypsometrical

computations fully affirm my discovery that in

Mount Haystack we have another mountain of

five thousand feet altitude. It may not be

uninteresting also to remark that the difference

between the altitudes of Mount Marcy and Mount

Washington of the White Mountains of New

Hampshire is found to be quite eight hundred

feet. Mount Marcy, Mount MacIntyre, and

Mount Haystack are to be remembered as the

three royal summits of the state.

"The four prominent peaks are --

Mount Marcy{ Mount Tahawus -- "I cleave the clouds,"} 5,402.65

Mount Haystack, 5,006.73

Mount Maclntyre, 5,201.80

Mount Skylight, 4,977.76."

If the general reader will pardon a seeming

digression to gratify the curiosity of some of my

boating friends, I will give from the report of

the Adirondack Survey Mr. Colvin's account

of his singular boat, -- one of the lightest yet

constructed, and weighing only as much as

a hunter's double-barrelled gun.

Mr. Colvin says:

"I also had constructed a canvas boat, of my

own invention, for use in the interior of the

wilderness on such of the mountain lakes as were

inaccessible to boats, and which it would be

necessary to map. This boat was peculiar; no

more frame being needed than could be readily

cut in thirty minutes in the first thicket. It was

twelve feet long, with thin sheet brass prows,

riveted on, and so fitted as to receive the keelson,

prow pieces, and ribs (of boughs), when

required; the canoe being made water-proof with

pure rubber gum, dissolved in naphtha, rubbed

into it."

Page 43 of Mr. Colvin's report informs the

reader how well this novel craft served the

purpose for which it was built.

"September 12 was devoted to levelling and

topographical work at Ampersand Pond, a solitary

lake locked in by mountains, and seldom visited.

There was no boat upon its surface, and in order

to complete the hydrographical work we had

now, of necessity, to try my portable canvas boat,

which had hitherto done service as bed or tent.

Cutting green rods for ribs, we unrolled the boat

and tied them in, lashing poles for gunwales at

the sides, and in a short time our canvas canoe,

buoyant as a cork, was floating on the water.

The guides, who had been unable to believe that

the flimsy bag they carried could be used as a

boat, were in ecstasies. Rude but efficient

paddles were hastily hewn from the nearest tree,

and soon we were all gliding in our ten-pound

boat over the waves of Ampersand, which

glittered in the morning sunlight. To the guides

the boat was something astonishing; they could

not refrain from laughter to find that they were

really afloat in it, and pointed with surprise at

the waves, which could be seen through the

boat, rippling against its sides. With the aid of

the boat, with prismatic compass and sextant, I

was able to secure an excellent map of the lake;

and we almost succeeded in catching a deer,

which was driven into the lake by a strange

hound. The dog lost the trail at the water, and

desiring to put him on the track, we paddled to

him. He scrambled into the boat with an air of

satisfaction, as if he had always travelled in just

such a thing. Soon we had regained the trail,

and making the mountains echo to his voice,

he again pursued the deer on into the trackless

forest.

"Continuing our work, we passed down into

the outlet, where, in trying to effect a landing,

we suddenly came face to face with a large

panther, which had evidently been watching us.

He fled at our approach.

"Our baggage was quickly packed, and the

temporary frame of the canoe having been taken

out and thrown away, we rolled up our boat and

put it in the bottom of a knapsack. . . . The same

day by noon we reached Cold Brook again, here

navigable. In an hour and a half we had

re-framed the canvas, cut out two paddles from a

dry cedar-tree, had dinner, loaded the boat, and

were off; easily gliding down stream to the

Saranac River. Three men, the heaped baggage in

the centre, and the solemn hound, who seemed

to consider himself part of the company, sitting

upright near the prow, forming in all a burden

of about one third of a ton, was a severe test of

the green boughs of which we had made the frame.

"Ascending the Saranac River, we struck out

into the broad Saranac Lake, some six miles

in length, and though the winds and the waves

buffeted us, the canvas sides of the boat

responding elastically to each beat of the waves, we got

safely along till near the Sister Islands, when, the

wind blowing very fresh, the white-capped

rollers began to pitch into the boat. The exertions

of the guides brought us under the lee shore, and

at evening we disembarked at Martin's."

Geographies, guide-books, and historical works

frequently give the length of Lake Champlain as

one hundred and fifty, or at the least one hundred

and forty miles. These distances are not correct.

The lake proper begins at a point near

Ticonderoga and ends not far from the boundary line of

the United States and Canada. Champlain is not

less than one hundred nor more than one hundred

and twelve miles long. The Champlain Canal,

which connects the river that flows from

Whitehall into the lake with the Hudson River, is

sixty-four miles long, ending at the Erie Canal at

Junction Lock, near Troy. From Junction Lock

to Albany, along the Erie Canal, it is six miles;

or seventy miles from Whitehall to Albany by

canal route. This distance has frequently been

given as fifty-one miles.

From the United States boundary line south-ward

it is a distance of seven miles to Isle la

Motte, which island is five and a half miles long

by one and three quarters wide, with a

lighthouse upon its northwest point. From the New

York shore of Monti Bay, across the end of Isle

la Motte to St. Albans, Vermont, is a distance of

thirteen and a half miles. Two miles south of

the island, on the west shore, is Point au Roche

light; and two miles and three quarters south of

it is Rocky Point, the terminus of Long Point.

Next comes Treadwell Bay, three miles across;

then two miles further on is Cumberland Head

and its light-house. West from Cumberland,

three miles across a large bay, is Plattsburgh, at

the mouth of the Saranac River, a town of five

thousand inhabitants. In this vicinity

Commodore Macdonough fought the British fleet in 1814.

These are historic waters, which have witnessed

the scene of many a bloody struggle between

French, English, and Indian adversaries. Off

Cumberland Head, and dividing the lake, is

Grand Isle, twelve miles in length and from

three to four in width.

The village of Port Kent is near the mouth of

the Ausable River, which flows out of the

northern Adirondack country. A few miles from the

lake is the natural wonder, the Ausable Chasm,

which is nearly two miles in length. The river

has worn a channel in the Potsdam sandstone

formation to a depth, in places, of two hundred

feet. Between high walls of rock the river is

compressed in one place to ten feet in breadth,

and dashes wildly over falls and rapids on its

way to Lake Champlain. It is said to rival the

famous Swiss Gorge du Triant.

Schuyler's Island, upon the shore of which we

passed Tuesday night, is nearly in the latitude of

Burlington, Vermont. The distance from Port

Douglass on the west, to Burlington on the east

side of Champlain, over an open expanse of

water, is nine miles and three quarters. We

breakfasted by starlight, and passed Ligonier's

Point early in the day. One mile and a half east

of it is the group of little islands called Four

Brothers. The lake grew narrower as we rowed

southward, until, after passing Port Henry Iron

Works, and the high promontory of Crown Point,

upon which are the ruins of the French Fort

Frederic, built in 1731, it has a width of only

two miles.

At eight o'clock P. M. we dropped anchor

under the banks of Ticonderoga, not far from the

outlet of Lake George. It is four miles by road

between the two lakes. The stream which

connects them can be ascended from Champlain

about two miles to the Iron Works, the

remainder of the river being filled with rapids.

A railroad now (1867) connects lakes George

and Champlain, over which an easy portage can

be made. The ruined walls of Fort

Ticonderoga are near the railroad landing. A little

south of this the lake grows so narrow as to

resemble a river. At its southern end,

twenty-four miles from Ticonderoga, is situated the

town of Whitehall, where the Champlain and

Hudson River Canal forms a junction with Lake

Champlain. This long river-like termination of

Champlain gave to the Indians the fancy of

calling it Tisinondrosa -- "the tail of the lake;"

which in mouths inexperienced with the savage

tongue became corrupted into Ticonderoga.

Wednesday broke upon us a glorious day.

Proceeding three miles to Patterson's Landing,

into the "tail of the lake," I left the Mayeta to

explore on foot the shores of Lake George,

promising Bodfish to join him at Whitehall when

my work should be finished.

CHAPTER IV. FROM LAKES GEORGE AND CHAMPLAIN TO THE HUDSON RIVER.

THE DISCOVERY OF LAKE GEORGE BY FATHER JOGUES. -- A

PEDESTRIAN JOURNEY. -- THE HERMIT OF THE NARROWS. --

CONVENT OF ST. MARY'S OF THE LAKE. -- THE PAULIST

FATHERS. -- CANAL-ROUTE FROM LAKE CHAMPLAIN TO

ALBANY. -- BODFISH RETURNS TO NEW JERSEY. -- THE LITTLE

FLEET IN ITS HAVEN OF REST.

In the last chapter I gave, from seemingly

good authority, the appellation of the narrow

terminal water of the southern end of Lake

Champlain, "the tail of the lake." Another

authority, in describing Lake George, says:

"The Indians named the lake, on account of the

purity of its waters, Horicon, or 'silvery water;'

they also called it Canderi-oit, or 'the tail of

the lake,' on account of its connecting with Lake

Champlain." Cooper, in his "Last of the

Mohicans," says: "It occurred to me that the

French name of the lake was too complicated,

the American too commonplace, and the Indian

too unpronounceable for either to be used

familiarly in a work of fiction." So he called it

Horicon.

History furnishes us with the following facts

in regard to the discovery of the lake. While

journeying up the St. Lawrence in a fleet of

twelve canoes, on a mission to the friendly

Huron aborigines, Father Isaac Jogues and his two

friends, donnes of the mission, Rene Goupil and

Guillaume Couture, with another Frenchman,

were captured at the western end of Lake of

St. Peter by a band of Iroquois, which was on a

marauding expedition from the Mohawk River

country, near what is now the city of Troy. In

the panic caused by the sudden onslaught of the

Iroquois, the unconverted portion of the thirty-six

Huron allies of the Frenchmen fled into the

woods, while the christianized portion defended

the white men for a while. A reinforcement of

the enemy soon scattered these also, but not

until the Frenchmen and a few of the Hurons

were made captive. This was on the 2d of

August, 1642.

According to Francis Parkman, the author of

"The Jesuits in North America," the savages

tortured Jogues and his white companions,

striping off their clothing, tearing out their

fingernails with their teeth, and gnawing their fingers

with the fury of beasts. The seventy Iroquois

returned southward, following the River

Richelieu, Lake Champlain, and Lake George, en

route for the Mohawk towns. Meeting a war

party of two hundred of their own nation on

one of the islands of Champlain, the Indians

formed two parallel lines between which the

captives were forced to run for their lives, while

the savages struck at them with thorny sticks

and clubs. Father Jogues fell exhausted to the

ground, bathed in his own blood, when fire was

applied to his body. At night the young

warriors tormented the poor captives by opening

their wounds and tearing out their hair and

beards. The day following this night of torture

the Indians and their mangled captives reached

the promontory of Ticonderoga, along the base

of which flowed the limpid waters, the outlet of

Lake George. Here the party made a portage

through the primeval forests, carrying their

canoes and cargoes on their backs, when suddenly

there broke upon their view the dark blue waters

of a beautiful lake, which Mr. Parkman thus

eloquently describes:

"Like a fair naiad of the wilderness it

slumbered between the guardian mountains that

breathe from crag and forest the stern poetry of

war. But all then was solitude; and the clang

of trumpets, the roar of cannon, and the deadly

crack of the rifle had never as yet awakened

their angry echoes. Again the canoes were

launched and the wild flotilla glided on its way,

now in the shadow of the heights, now on the

broad expanse, now among the devious

channels of the Narrows, beset with woody islets

where the hot air was redolent of the pine, the

spruce, and the cedar,-- till they neared that

tragic shore where, in the following century,

New England rustics battled the soldiers of

Dieskau, where Montcalm planted his batteries,

where the red cross waved so long amid the

smoke, and where, at length, the summer night

was hideous with carnage, and an honored name

was stained with a memory of blood. The

Indians landed at or near the future site of Fort

William Henry, left their canoes, and with their

prisoners began their march for the nearest

Mohawk town."

Father Jogues lived among his captors until

the fall of 1643, when he escaped in a vessel

from the Dutch settlement of Rensselaerswyck

(Albany), to which place the Iroquois had gone

to trade with the inhabitants. He arrived at the

Jesuit college of Rennes, France, in a most

destitute condition, on the 5th of January, 1644,

where he was joyfully received and kindly cared

for. When he appeared before Queen Anne of

Austria, the woman who wore a diadem thought

it a privilege to kiss his mutilated hands. -- In the

Roman Catholic church a deformed or mutilated

priest cannot say mass; he must be a perfect

man in body and mind before the Lord. Father

Jogues wished to return to his old missionary

field; so, to restore to him his lost right of saying

mass, the Pope granted his prayer by a special

dispensation. In the spring of 1643 he returned

to the St. Lawrence country to found a new

mission, to be called the Mission of Martyrs. His

Superior at Montreal ordered him to proceed to

the country of the Mohawks, and in company

with Sieur Bourdon, a government engineer, and

six Indians, he followed the Richelieu and

Champlain, which the savages called "the doorway

of the country," until the little party stood on

the northern end of Lake George, on the

evening of Corpus Christi; and with the catholic

spirit of the Jesuit missionary he christened it

Lac St. Sacrement, and this name it bore for a

whole century. On the 18th of October, 1646,

the tomahawk of the savage ended the life

of Father Jogues, who, after suffering many

tortures and indignities from his Iroquois captors,

died in their midst while working for their

salvation in his field of Christian labor.

The right of a discoverer to name new lakes

and rivers is old and unquestioned. A

missionary of the cross penetrated an unexplored

wilderness and found this noblest gem of the lower

Adirondacks, unknown to civilized man.

Impressed with this sublime work of his Creator,

the martyred priest christened it St. Sacrement.

One hundred years later came troops of soldiers

with mouths filled with strange oaths, cursing

their enemies. What respect had they for the

rights of discoverers or martyred missionaries?

So General Johnson, "an ambitious Irishman,"

discarded the Christian name of the lake and

replaced it with the English one of George.

He did not name it after St. George, the patron

saint of England, of whom history asserts that

he "was identical with a native of either

Cappadocia or Cilicia, who raised himself by flattery

of the great from the meanest circumstances to

be purveyor of bacon for the army, and who was

put to death with two of his ministers by a mob,

for peculations, A. D. 361;" but he took that of

a sensual king, George of England, in order to

advance his own interests with that monarch.

For more than a century Lake George was the

highway between Canada and the Hudson River.

Its pure waters were so much esteemed as to be

taken regularly to Canada to be consecrated and

used in the Roman Catholic churches in

baptismal and other sacred rites. The lake was

frequently occupied by armies, and the forts George

and William Henry, at the southern end, possess

most interesting historical associations. The

novelist Cooper made Lake George a region of

romance. To the young generation of

Americans who yearly visit its shores it is an El

Dorado, and the very air breathes love as they

glide in their light boats over its pellucid waters,

adding to the picturesqueness of the scene, and

supplying that need ever felt, no matter what

the natural beauty, -- the presence of man. I

believe even the Garden of Eden itself could

not have been perfect till among its shady

groves fell the shadows of our first parents.

The cool retreats, the jutting promontories, the

moss-covered rocks against which the waves

softly break, -- if these had tongues, they would,

like Tennyson's Brook, "go on forever," for

surely they would never have done telling the

tender tales they have heard. Nor would it be

possible to find a more fitting spot for the

cultivation of love and sentiment than this charming

lake affords; for Nature seems to have created

Lake George in one of her happiest moments.

This lake is about thirty-four miles long, and

varies in width from one to four miles. Its

greatest depth is about the same as that of

Champlain. It possesses (like all the American

lakes when used as fashionable watering-places)

the usual three hundred and sixty-five islands.

When I left the Mayeta I followed a narrow

footpath to a rough mountain road, which in

turn led me through the forests towards Lake

George. In an isolated dell I found the home

of one Levi Smith, who piloted me through the

woods to the lake, and ferried me in a skiff

across to Hague, when I dined at the hotel, and

resumed my journey along the shores to Sabbath

Day Point, where at four o'clock P. M. a steamer

on its trip from Ticonderoga to the south end of

the lake stopped and took me on board. We

steamed southward to where high mountains

shut in the lake, and for several miles threaded

the "Narrows" with its many pretty islands,

upon one of which Mr. J. Henry Hill, the

hermit-artist, had erected his modest home, and

where he toiled at his studies early and late,

summer and winter. Three goats and a squirrel

were his only companions in this lonely but

romantic spot.

During one cold winter, when the lake was

frozen over to a depth of two feet, and the

forests were mantled in snow, Mr. Hill's brother,

a civil engineer, made a visit to this icy region,

and the two brothers surveyed the Narrows,

making a correct map of that portion of the lake,

with all its islands carefully located. Mr. Hill

afterwards made an etching of this map,

surrounding it with an artistic border representing

objects of interest in the locality.

Late in the afternoon the steamer landed me

at Crosbyside, on the east shore, about a mile

from the head of the lake, resting beneath the

shady groves of which I beheld one of the most

charming views of Lake George. Early the

following morning I took up my abode with a

farmer, one William Lockhart, a genial and

eccentric gentleman, and a descendant of Sir

Walter Scott's son-in-law. Mr. Lockhart's little

cottage is half a mile north of Crosbyside, and

near the high bluff which Mr. Charles O'Conor,

the distinguished lawyer of New York city,

presented to the Paulist Fathers, whose

establishment is on Fifty-ninth Street in that metropolis.

Here the members of the new Order come to

pass their summer vacations, bringing with them

their theological students. The Paulists are hard

workers, visiting and holding "missions" in

Minnesota, California, and other parts of the United

States. They seem to feel forcibly the truth

expressed in these lines, which are to be found

in "Aspirations of Nature," a work written by

the founder of their order, Father Hecker:

"Existence is not a dream, but a solemn reality.

Life was not given to be thrown away on

miserable sophisms but to be employed in earnest

search after truth."

Mr. Lockhart kindly offered to escort me to the

convent of St. Mary's on the Lake; and after

following the mountain road for a quarter of a

mile to the north of the cottage of my companion,

we entered the shady grounds of the convent and

were kindly received on the long piazza by the

Father Superior, Rev. A. F. Hewit, who

introduced me to several of his co-laborers, a party

of them having just returned from an excursion

to the Harbor Islands at the northern end of the

Narrows, which property is owned by the Order.

I was told that the members of this new religious

establishment numbered about thirty, and that all

but four were converts from our Protestant faith.

Their property in New York city is probably

worth half a million of dollars, and the Sunday

schools under their charge contain about

fifteen hundred scholars. Here, among others,

I saw Father D____, who gave up his

distinguished position as instructor of the art of war

at the Military Academy of West Point, to

become a soldier of the Cross, preferring to serve

his Master by preaching the gospel of peace

to mankind. Under an overhanging rock at a

little distance were conversing, most happily,

two young priests, who a few years before had

fought on opposite sides during the civil strife

which resulted in the preservation of the Great

Republic.

A mathematician and astronomer from the

Cambridge and also from a government

observatory, who had donned the cassock, gave me

much valuable information in regard to the

mountain peaks of Lake George,* which he had

carefully studied and accurately measured. Through

his courtesy and generosity I am enabled to give

on the preceding page the results of his labors.

* Heights of mountains of Lake George, New York state,

obtained by Rev. George M. Searle, C. S. P.

Finch, between Buck and Spruce, 1595 feet.

Cat-Head, near Bolton, 1640 feet.

Prospect Mountain, west of Lake George village, 1730 feet.

Spruce, near Buck Mountain, 1820 feet.

Buck, east shore, south of Narrows, 2005 feet.

Rear, between Buck and Black, 2200 feet.

Black, the monarch of Lake George, 2320 feet.

From another authority I find that Lake Champlain is ninety-three

feet above the Atlantic tide-level, and that Lake George is

two hundred and forty feet above Lake Champlain, or three

hundred and thirty-three feet above the sea.

The interesting conversation was here

interrupted by the tolling of the convent bell. A

deep silence prevailed, as, with uncovered heads

and upon bended knees, the whole company most

devoutly crossed themselves while repeating

a prayer. I felt much drawn towards a young

priest with delicate and refined features, who

now engaged me in conversation. He was an

adept in all that related to boats. He loved the

beautiful lake, and was never happier than when

upon its mirrored surface, except when laboring

at his duties among the poor of the ninth

district of New York. The son of a distinguished

general, he inherited rare talents, which were

placed at his Saviour's service. His Christianity

was so liberal, his aspirations so noble, his

sympathies so strong, that I became much interested

in him; and when I left the lake, shortly after,

he quietly said, "When you return next summer

to build your cottage, let me help you plan the

boat-house." But when I returned to the shores

of Lake George, after the completion of my

voyage to the Gulf of Mexico, no helping hand was

there, and I built my boat-house unassisted; for

the gentle spirit of the missionary Paulist had

gone to God who gave it, and Father Rosencranz

was receiving his reward.

When I joined my travelling companion, David

Bodfish, he grievously inveighed against the

community of Whitehall because some dishonest

boatmen from the canal had appropriated the

stock of pipes and tobacco he had laid in for his

three or four days' voyage to Albany. "Sixty

cents' worth of new pipes and tobacco," said

David, in injured tones, "is a great loss, and a

Bodfish never was worth anything at work without

his tobacco. I used to pour speerits down to keep

my speerits up, but of late years I have depended

on tobacco, as the speerits one gets nowadays

isn't the same kind we got when I was a boy and

worked in old Hawkin Swamp."

Canal voyaging, after one has experienced the

sweet influences of lakes George and

Champlain, is indeed monotonous. But to follow

connecting watercourses it was necessary for the

Mayeta to traverse the Champlain Canal

(sixty-four) and the Erie Canal (six miles) from

Whitehall to Albany on the Hudson River, a total

distance of seventy miles.

There was nothing of sufficient interest in the

passage of the canal to be worthy of record save

the giving way of a lock-gate, near Troy, and

the precipitating of a canal-boat into the vortex

of waters that followed. By this accident my

boat was detained one day on the banks of the

canal. On the fourth day the Mayeta ended her

services by arriving at Albany, where, after a

journey of four hundred miles, experience had

taught me that I could travel more quickly in a

lighter boat, and more conveniently and

economically without a companion. It was now about

the first week in August, and the delay which

would attend the building of a new boat

especially adapted for the journey of two thousand

miles yet to be travelled would not be lost, as by

waiting a few weeks, time would be given for

the malaria on the rivers of New Jersey,

Delaware, and Maryland, and even farther south, to

be eradicated by the fall frosts. David returned

to his New Jersey home a happy man, invested

with the importance which attaches itself to a

great traveller. I had unfortunately contributed

to Mr. Bodfish's thirst for the marvellous by

reading to him at night, in our lonely camp,

Jules Verne's imaginative "Journey to the

Centre of the Earth." David was in ecstasies over

this wonderful contribution to fiction. He

preferred fiction to truth at any time. Once, while

reading to him a chapter of the above work, his

credulity was so challenged that he became

excited, and broke forth with, "Say, boss, how do

these big book-men larn to lie so well? does it

come nat'ral to them, or is it got by edication?"

I have since heard that when Mr. Bodfish arrived

in the pine-wood regions of New Jersey he

related to his friends his adventures "in furrin

parts," as he styled the Dominion of Canada,

and so interlaced the facts of the cruise of the

Mayeta with the fancies of the "Journey to the

Centre of the Earth," that to his neighbors the

region of the St. Lawrence has become a

country of awful and mysterious associations, while

the more knowing members of the community

which David honors with his presence are firmly

convinced that there never existed such a boat

as the Mayeta save in the wild imagination of

David Bodfish.

Mr. Bodfish's fictitious adventures, as related

by him, covered many thousand miles of canoe

voyaging. He had penetrated the region of ice

beyond Labrador, and had viewed with

complacency the north pole, which he found to be

a pitch-pine spar that had been erected by

the Coast Survey "to measure pints from."

He roundly censured the crews of whale-ships

which had mutilated this noble government

work by splitting much of it into kindling-wood.

Fortunately about two-thirds of Mr. Bodfish's

audience had no very clear conceptions of the

character of the north pole, some of them having

ignored its very existence. So they accepted

this portion of his narrative, while they rejected

the most reasonable part of his story.

The Mayeta was sent to Lake George, and

afterwards became a permanent resident. Two

years later her successor, the Paper Canoe, one

of the most happy efforts of the Messrs. Waters,

of Troy, was quietly moored beside her; and

soon after there was added to the little fleet a

cedar duck-boat, which had carried me on a

second voyage to the great southern sea. Here,

anchored safely under the high cliffs, rocked

gently by the loving waters of Lake George, rest

these faithful friends. They carried me over

five thousand miles, through peaceful rivers and

surging seas. They have shared my dangers;

they now share my peace.

CHAPTER V. THE AMERICAN PAPER BOAT AND ENGLISH CANOES.

THE PECULIAR CHARACTER OF THE PAPER BOAT. -- THE HISTORY

OF THE ADOPTION OF PAPER FOR BOATS. -- A BOY'S INGENUITY.

-- THE PROCESS OF BUILDING PAPER BOATS DESCRIBED. --

COLLEGE CLUBS ADOPTING THEAM. -- THE GREAT VICTORIES WON

BY PAPER OVER WOODEN SHELLS IN 1876.

Inquiries regarding the history and

durability of paper boats occasionally reach me

through the medium of the post-office. After

all the uses to which paper has been put during

the last twenty years, the public is yet hardly

convinced that the flimsy material, paper, can

successfully take the place of wood in the

construction of light pleasure-boats, canoes, and

racing shells. Yet the idea has become an

accomplished fact. The success of the victorious

paper shells of the Cornell College navy, which

were enlisted in the struggles of two seasons at

Saratoga, against no mean antagonists, -- the

college crews of the United States, -- surely proves

that in strength, stiffness, speed, and fineness of

model, the paper boat is without a rival.

When used in its own peculiar sphere, the

improved paper boat will be found to possess the

following merits: less weight, greater strength,

stiffness, durability, and speed than a wooden

boat of the same size and model; and the moulded

paper shell will retain the delicate lines so

essential to speed, while the brittle wooden shell yields

more or less to the warping influences of sun and

moisture. A comparison of the strength of wood

and paper for boats has been made by a writer in

the Cornell Times, a journal published by the

students of that celebrated New York college:

"Let us take a piece of wood and a piece of

paper of the same thickness, and experiment

with, use, and abuse them both to the same

extent. Let the wood be of one-eighth of an inch

in thickness -- the usual thickness of shell-boats,

and the paper heavy pasteboard, both one foot

square. Holding them up by one side, strike

them with a hammer, and observe the result.

The wood will be cracked, to say the least;

the pasteboard, whirled out of your hand, will

only be dented, at most. Take hold and bend

them: the wood bends to a certain degree, and

then splits; the pasteboard, bent to the same

degree, is not affected in the least. Take a knife

and strike them: the wood is again split, the

pasteboard only pierced. Place them on the

water: the wood floats for an indefinite time; the

pasteboard, after a time, soaks, and finally sinks,

as was to be expected. But suppose we soak the

pasteboard in marine glue before the experiment,

then we find the pasteboard equally as

impervious to the water as wood, and as buoyant, if of

the same weight; but, to be of the same weight,

it must be thinner than the wood, yet even then

it stands the before-mentioned tests as well as

when thicker; and it will be found to stand all

tests much better than wood, even when it

weighs considerably less.

"Now, enlarging our pieces, and moulding

them into boats of the same weight, we find the

following differences: Wood, being stiff and

liable to split, can only be moulded into

comparative form. Paper, since it can be rendered

perfectly pliable, can be pressed into any shape

desirable; hence, any wished-for fineness of lines

can be given to the model, and the paper will

assume the identical shape, after which it can be

water-proofed, hardened, and polished. Paper

neither swells, nor shrinks, nor cracks, hence it

does not leak, is always ready for use, always

serviceable. As to cost, there is very little

difference between the two; the cost being within

twenty-five dollars, more or less, the same for

both. Those who use paper boats think them

very near perfection; and surely those who have

the most to do with boats ought to know,

prejudice aside, which is the best."

An injury to a paper boat is easily repaired by

a patch of strong paper and a coating of shellac

put on with a hot iron. As the paper boat is

a novelty with many people, a sketch of its early

history may prove interesting to the reader. Mr.

George A. Waters, the son of the senior member

of the firm of E. Waters & Sons, of Troy, New

York, was invited some years since to a

masquerade party. The boy repaired to a toy shop to

purchase a counterfeit face; but, thinking the

price (eight dollars) was more than he could

afford for a single evening's sport, he borrowed

the mask for a model, from which he produced a

duplicate as perfect as was the original. While

engaged upon his novel work, an idea impressed

itself upon his ingenious brain. "Cannot," he

queried, "a paper shell be made upon the wooden

model of a boat? And will not a shell thus

produced, after being treated to a coat of varnish,

float as well, and be lighter than a wooden boat?"

This was in March, 1867, while the youth was

engaged in the manufacture of paper boxes.

Having repaired a wooden shell-boat by

covering the cracks with sheets of stout paper cemented

to the wood, the result satisfied him; and he

immediately applied his attention to the further

development of his bright idea. Assisted by his

father, Mr. Elisha Waters, the enterprise was

commenced "by taking a wooden shell, thirteen

inches wide and thirty feet long, as a mould,

and covering the entire surface of its bottom and

sides with small sheets of strong Manila paper,

glued together, and superposed on each other, so

that the joints of one layer were covered by the

middle of the sheet immediately above, until a

sheet of paper had been formed one-sixteenth of

an inch in thickness. The fabric thus

constructed, after being carefully dried, was

removed from the mould and fitted up with a

suitable frame, consisting of a lower keelson, two

inwales, the bulkhead; in short, all the usual

parts of the frame of a wooden shell, except the

timbers, or ribs, of which none were used -- the

extreme stiffness of the skin rendering them

unnecessary. Its surface was then carefully

waterproofed with suitable varnishes, and the work was

completed. Trials proved that, rude as was this

first attempt compared with the elegant craft

now turned out from paper, it had marked merits,

among which were, its remarkable stiffness, the

symmetry of the hull with respect to its long

axis, and the smoothness of the water-surface."

A gentleman, who possesses excellent

judgment and long experience in all that relates to

paper boats, furnishes me with the following

valuable information, which I feel sure will

interest the reader.

"The process of building the paper shell-boat

is as follows: The dimensions of the boat having

been determined upon, the first step is to

construct a wooden model, or form, an exact

facsimile of the desired boat, on which to mould

the paper skin. For this purpose the lines of the

boat are carefully drawn out of the full size, and

from the drawings thus made the model is

prepared. It is built of layers of well-seasoned

pine, securely fastened together to form one solid

mass; which, after having been laid up of the

general outline required, is carefully worked off,

until its surface, which is made perfectly smooth,

exactly conforms to the selected lines, and its

beam, depth, and length are those of the given

boat. During the process of its construction,

suitable rabbets are cut to receive the lower

keelson, the two inwales, and the bow and stern

deadwoods, which, being put in position, are

worked off so that their surfaces are flush with

that of the model, and forming, as it were, an

integral part of it. It being important that these

parts should, in the completed boat, be firmly

attached to the skin, their surface is, at this part

of the process, covered with a suitable adhesive

preparation.

"The model is now ready to be covered with

paper. Two kinds are used: that made from the

best Manila, and that prepared from pure

unbleached linen stock; the sheets being the full

length of the model, no matter what that may

be. If Manila paper is used, the first sheet is

dampened, laid smoothly on the model, and

securely fastened in place by tacking it to

certain rough strips attached to its upper face.

Other sheets are now superposed on this and on

each other, and suitably cemented together; the

number depending upon the size of the boat and

the stiffness required. If linen paper is used, but

one sheet is employed, of such weight and

dimensions that, when dry, it will give just the

thickness of skin necessary. Should the surface

of the model be concave in parts, as in the run

of boats with square sterns for instance, the paper

is made to conform to these surfaces by suitable

convex moulds, which also hold the paper in

place until, by drying, it has taken and will

retain the desired form. The model, with its

enveloping coat of paper, is now removed to the

dry-room. As the paper skin dries, all wrinkles

disappear, and it gradually assumes the desired

shape. Finally, when all moisture has been

evaporated, it is taken from the mould an exact

fac-simile of the model desired, exceedingly stiff,

perfectly symmetrical, and seamless.

"The paper is now subjected to the water-proof

process, and the skin, with its keelson, inwales,

and dead-woods attached, is then placed in the

carpenter's hands, where the frame is completed

in the usual manner, as described for wooden

boats. The paper decks being put on, it is then

ready for the brass, iron, and varnish work. As

the skins of these boats (racing-shells) vary from

one-sixteenth of an inch in the singles, to

one-twelfth of an inch in the six-oared outriggers, the

wooden frame becomes necessary to support and

keep them in shape. In applying this invention

to gigs, dingys, canoes, and skiffs, a somewhat

different method is adopted. Since these boats

are subjected to much hard service, and must be

so constructed as to permit the occupant to move

about in them as is usual in such craft, a light

and strong frame of wood is prepared, composed

of a suitable number of pairs of ribs, with stem

and stern pieces cut from the natural crooks of

hackmatack roots. These are firmly framed to

two gunwales and a keelson, extending the

length of the boat; the whole forming the

skeleton shape of the desired model. The forms for

these boats having been prepared, as already

described for the racing-shells, and the frame

being let into this form, so that the outer surface

of the ribs, stem and stern pieces will conform

with its outer surface, the paper skin is next laid

upon it. The skin, manufactured from new,

unbleached linen stock, is carefully stretched in

place, and when perfectly dry is from one-tenth

to three-sixteenths of an inch thick. Removed

from the model, it is water-proofed, the frame

and fittings completed, and the boat varnished.

In short, in this class of boats, the shape, style,

and finish are precisely that of wooden ones, of

corresponding dimensions and class, except that

for the usual wooden sheathing is substituted the

paper skin as described.

"The advantages possessed by these boats over

those of wood are:

"By the use of this material for the skins of

racing-shells, where experience has demonstrated

the smooth bottom to be the best, under-water

lines of any degree of fineness can be developed,

which cannot successfully be produced in those

of wood, even where the streaks are so reduced

in thickness that strength, stiffness, and

durability are either wholly sacrificed or greatly

impaired. In the finer varieties of 'dug-outs'

equally fine lines can be obtained; but so delicate

are such boats, if the sides are reduced to

three-sixteenths of an inch or less in thickness, that it

is found practically impossible to preserve their

original forms for any length of time. Hence,

so far as this point is concerned, it only remains

for the builder to select those models which

science, guided by experience, points out as the

best.

The paper skin, after being water-proofed, is

finished with hard varnishes, and then presents a

solid, perfectly smooth, and horny surface to the

action of the water, unbroken by joint, lap, or

seam. This surface admits of being polished as

smooth as a coach-panel or a mirror. Unlike

wood, it has no grain to be cracked or split, it

never shrinks, and, paper being one of the best

of non-conductors, no ordinary degree of heat

or cold affects its shape or hardness, and hence

these boats are admirably adapted for use in all

climates. As the skin absorbs no moisture,

these boats gain no weight by use, and, having

no moisture to give off when out of the water,

they do not, like wooden boats, show the effect

of exposure to the air by leaking. They are,

therefore, in this respect always prepared for

service.

The strength and stiffness of the paper shells

are most remarkable. To demonstrate it, a

single shell of twelve inch beam and twenty-eight

feet long, fitted complete with its outriggers,

the hull weighing twenty-two pounds, was

placed on two trestles eight feet apart, in such a

manner that the trestles were each the same

distance from the centre of the cockpit, which

was thus entirely unsupported. A man

weighing one hundred and forty pounds then seated

himself in it, and remained in this position three

minutes. The deflection caused by this strain,

being accurately measured, was found to be

one-sixteenth of an inch at a point midway between

the supports. If this load, applied under such

abnormal conditions, produced so little effect, we

can safely assume that, when thus loaded and

resting on the water, supported throughout her

whole length, and the load far more equally

distributed over the whole frame, there would be

no deflection whatever.

"Lightness, when combined with a proper,

stiffness and strength, being a very desirable quality,

it is here that the paper boats far excel their

wooden rivals. If two shells are selected, the one of

wood and the other with a paper skin and deck,

as has been described, of the same dimensions

and equally stiff, careful experiment proves that

the wooden one will be thirty per cent. the

heaviest. If those of the same dimensions and

equal weight are compared, the paper one will

be found to exceed the wooden one in stiffness

and in capacity to resist torsional strains in the

same proportion. Frequent boasts are made that

wooden shells can be and are built much lighter

than paper ones; and if the quality of lightness

alone is considered, this is true; yet when the

practical test of use is applied, such extremely

light wooden boats have always proved, and will

continue to prove, failures, as here this quality

is only one of a number which combine to make

the boat serviceable. A wooden shell whose

hull weighs twenty-two pounds, honest weight,

is a very fragile, short-lived affair. A paper

shell of the same dimensions, and of the same

weight, will last as long, and do as much work,

as a wooden one whose hull turns the beam at

thirty pounds.

"An instance of their remarkable strength is

shown in the following case. In the summer of

1870, a single shell, while being rowed at full

speed, with the current, on one of our

principal rivers, was run into to the stone abutment of a

bridge. The bow struck squarely on to

obstacle, and such was the momentum of the mass that

the oarsman was thrown directly through the

flaring bow of the cockpit into the river.

Witnesses of the accident who were familiar with

wooden shells declared that the boat was ruined;

but, after a careful examination, only the bow-tip

was found to be twisted in a spiral form, and the

washboard broken at the point by the oarsman

as he passed between the sides. Two dollars

covered the cost of repair. Had it been a

wooden shell the shock would have crushed its

stem and splintered the skin from the bow to the

waist."

Old and cautious seamen tried to dissuade me

from contracting with the Messrs. Waters for the

building of a stout paper canoe for my journey.

Harvard College had not adopted this "

newfangled notion" at that time, and Cornell had

only begun to think of attempting to out-row

other colleges at Saratoga by using paper boats.

The Centennial year of the independence of the

United States, 1876, settled all doubts as to the

value of the result of the years of toil of the

inventors of the paper boat. During the same

year the incendiary completed his revengeful

work by burning the paper-boat manufactory

at Troy. The loss was a heavy one; but a few

weeks later these unflinching men were able to

record the following victories achieved that

single season by their boats.

The races won by the paper boats were:

The Intercollegiate Championship:

Freshmen and University.

The International Championship at Saratoga:

Singles, Doubles, and Fours.

The National Championship, N. A. of A. 0.:

Singles, Doubles, and Fours.

The World's Championship at Centennial Exhibition:

Singles, Doubles, and Fours.

The Professional Championship of the United States.

And every other important race of the season,

besides receiving the highest honors at the

Centennial Exhibition. The right to make boats of

paper in Canada and in the United States is

exclusively held by the Messrs. Waters, and they

are the only manufacturers of paper boats in

the world.

It is not many years since Mr. McGregor, of

London, built the little Rob Roy canoe, and in it

made the tour of interesting European waters.

His example was followed by an army of tourists,

and it is now a common thing to meet canoe

voyagers in miniature flotillas upon the

watercourses of our own and foreign lands. Rev.

Baden Powell, also an Englishman, perfected

the model of the Nautilus type of canoe, which

possesses a great deal of sheer with fullness of

bow, and is therefore a better boat for rough

water than the Rob Roy. The New York Canoe

Club have adopted the Nautilus for their model.

We still need a distinctive American type for our

waters, more like the best Indian canoe than the

European models here presented. These

modern yacht-like canoes are really improved kyaks,

and in their construction we are much indebted

to the experience of the inhabitants of the Arctic

Circle. Very few of the so-called Rob Roy

canoes, built in the United States, resemble the

original perfected boat of Mr. McGregor -- the

father of modern canoe travelling. The

illustrations given of English canoes are from

imported models, and are perfect of their type.

CHAPTER VI. TROY TO PHILADELPHIA.

PAPER CANOE MARIA THERESA. -- THE START. -- THE DESCENT

OF THE HUDSON RIVER. -- CROSSING THE UPPER BAY OF NEW

YORK. -- PASSAGE OF THE KILLS. -- RARITAN RIVER -- THE

CANAL ROUTE FROM NEW BRUNSWICK TO THE DELAWARE

RIVER. -- FROM BORDENTOWN TO PHILADELPHIA.

My canoe of the English "Nautilus" type

was completed by the middle of October;

and on the cold, drizzly morning of the 21st of

the same month I embarked in my little

fifty-eight pound craft from the landing of the

paper-boat manufactory on the river Hudson, two miles

above Troy. Mr. George A. Waters put his

own canoe into the water, and proposed to

escort me a few miles down the river. If I

had any misgivings as to the stability of my

paper canoe upon entering her for the first time,

they were quickly dispelled as I passed the

stately Club-house of the Laureates, which

contained nearly forty shells, all of paper.

The dimensions of the Maria Theresa were:

length, fourteen feet; beam, twenty-eight inches;

depth, amidships, nine inches; height of bow

from horizontal line, twenty-three inches; height

of stern, twenty inches. The canoe was

one-eighth of an inch in thickness, and weighed

fifty-eight pounds. She was fitted with a pair

of steel outriggers, which could be easily

unshipped and stowed away. The oars were of

spruce, seven feet eight inches long, and weighed

three pounds and a quarter each. The double

paddle, which was seven feet six inches in length,

weighed two pounds and a half. The mast

and sail -- which are of no service on such a

miniature vessel, and were soon

discarded -- weighed six pounds. When I took on board at

Philadelphia the canvas deck-cover and the

rubber strap which secured it in position, and the

outfit, -- the cushion, sponge, provision-basket,

and a fifteen-pound case of charts, -- I found that,

with my own weight included (one hundred and

thirty pounds), the boat and her cargo, all told,

provisioned for a long cruise, fell considerably

short of the weight of three Saratoga trunks

containing a very modest wardrobe for a lady's

four weeks' visit at a fashionable watering-place.

<IMG SRC=images/kayak.gif ALT="The Aboriginal Type (Kayak)

- The Improved Type (Maria Theresa)">

The rain ceased, the mists ascended, and the

sunlight broke upon us as we swiftly descended

upon the current of the Hudson to Albany. The

city was reached in an hour and a half. Mr.

Waters, pointing his canoe northward, wished me

bon voyage, and returned to the scene of the

triumphs of his patient labors, while I settled down

to a steady row southward. At Albany, the

capital of the state, which is said to be one

hundred and fifty miles distant from New York city,

there is a tidal rise and fall of one foot.

A feeling of buoyancy and independence came

over me as I glided on the current of this noble

stream, with the consciousness that I now

possessed the right boat for my enterprise. It had

been a dream of my youth to become acquainted

with the charms of this most romantic river of

the American continent. Its sources are in the

clouds of the Adirondacks, among the cold peaks

of the northern wilderness; its ending may be

said to be in the briny waters of the Atlantic,

for its channel-way has been sounded outside

of the sandy beaches of New York harbor in

the bosom of the restless ocean. The highest

types of civilized life are nurtured upon its banks.

Noble edifices, which contain and preserve the

works of genius and of mechanical art, rear their

proud roofs from among these hills on the lofty

sites of the picturesque Hudson. The wealth

of the great city at its mouth, the metropolis of

the young nation, has been lavished upon the

soil of the river's borders to make it even more

beautiful and more fruitful. What river in

America, along the same length of coast-lines

as from Troy to New York (one hundred and

fifty-six miles), can rival in natural beauty

and artificial applications of wealth the lovely

Hudson? "The Hudson River," says its genial

historian, Mr. Lossing, "from its birth among

the mountains to its marriage with the ocean,

measures a distance of full three hundred

miles."

Captain John Smith's friend, the Englishman

Henry Hudson, while in the employ of the

Dutch East India Company, in his vessel of

ninety tons, the Half-Moon, being in search

of a northwest passage south of Virginia, cast

anchor outside of Sandy Hook, September 3,

1609, and on the 11th passed up through the

Narrows into the present bay of New York.

Under the firm conviction that he was on his

way to the long-sought Cathay, a day later he

entered the Hudson River, where now stands

the proud metropolis of America. As the Half-Moon

ascended the river the water lost its

saltness, and by the time they were anchored where

the city of Albany now stands all hopes of Cathay

faded from the heart of the mariner. Englishmen

called this river in honor of its discoverer, but the

Dutch gave it the name of North River,

the Delaware had been discovered and named

South River. Thus, while in 1609 Samuel

Champlain was exploring the lake which bears

his name, Hudson was ascending his river upon

the southern water-shed. The historian tells us

that these bold explorers penetrated the

wilderness, one from the north and the other from the

south, to within one hundred miles of each other.

The same historian (Dr. Lossing) says: "The

most remote source of the extreme western

branch of our noble river is Hendricks Spring,

so named in honor of Hendricks Hudson. We

found Hendricks Spring in the edge of a swamp,

cold, shallow, about five feet in diameter,

shaded by trees, shrubbery, and vines, and fringed

with the delicate brake and fern. Its waters,

rising within half a mile of Long Lake, and upon

the same summit-level, flow southward to the

Atlantic more than three hundred miles; while

those of the latter flow to the St. Lawrence, and

reach the same Atlantic a thousand miles away

to the far northeast."

Since Dr. Lossing visited the western head of

the Hudson River, the true and highest source

of the stream has probably been settled by a

gentleman possessing scientific acquirements and

inflexible purpose. On the plateau south of

Mount Marcy, State-Surveyor Colvin found

the little Lake Tear-of-the-Clouds to be the

loftiest sheet of water in the state, -- four

thousand three hundred and twenty-six feet above

the sea, -- and proved it to be the lake-head of

the great river Hudson. A second little pond in

a marsh on a high plateau, at the foot of Mount

Redfield, was also discovered, -- "margined and

embanked with luxuriant and deep sphagnous

moss," -- which was named by the party Moss

Lake. It was found to flow into the Hudson.

A beautiful little bivalve shell, three-sixteenths

of an inch in diameter, of an undescribed species,

was found in the pellucid water, and thus a new

shell was handed over to conchology, and a new

river source to geography, in the same hour.

This pool is four thousand three hundred and

twelve feet above tide-water, and only a few feet

lower than its sister, Tear-of-the-Clouds -- the

highest source of the Hudson.

Should the state of New York adopt Mr.

Colvin's suggestion, to reserve six hundred square

miles of the Adirondack region for a public park,

the pool Tear-of-the-Clouds will be within the

reservation. The waters of these baby

fountains are swollen by contributions from the

streams, ponds, and lakes of the Adirondack

wilderness, until along the banks of Fishing

Brook, a tributary of the Hudson, the water is

utilized at the first saw-mill. A few miles lower

down the forests are vexed by the axe of the

lumbermen, and logs are floated down the river

one hundred miles to Glens Falls, where the

State Dam and Great Boom are located. Half

a million logs have been gathered there in a

single spring.

It was upon the Hudson that the first

successful steamboat, built by Robert Fulton, made

its voyage to Albany, the engine having been

built by Watt & Bolton, in England.

From Mr. Lossing we obtain the following.

"The Clermont was one hundred feet long,

twelve feet wide, and seven feet deep. The

following advertisement appeared in the Albany

Gazette on the 1st of September, 1807:

"The North River steamboat will leave Paulus Hook (Jersey

City) on Friday, the 4th of September, at 9 in the morning, and

arrive at Albany on Saturday at 9 in the afternoon. Provisions,

good berths, and accommodations are provided. The charge to

each passenger is as follows:

To Newburgh, . . . . 3 Dollars. . . Time, 14 hours.

" Poughkeepsie, . . 4 " . . . . " 17 "

" Esopus, . . . . 5 " . . . . " 20 "

" Hudson, . . . . 5-1/2" . . . . " 30 "

" Albany, . . . . 7 " . . . . " 36 " ."

The trip, which was made against a strong

head wind, was entirely successful. The large

steamers can now make the trip from New York

to Albany in about ten hours.

As I pulled easily along the banks of the river,

my eyes feasted upon the gorgeous coloring of

the autumnal foliage, which formed a scene of

beauty never to be forgotten. The rapid

absorption of oxygen by the leaves in the fall months

produces, in northern America, these vivid tints

which give to the country the appearance of a

land covered with a varied and brilliant garment,

"a coat of many colors." A soft hazy light

pervaded the atmosphere, while at the same time

the October air was gently exhilarating to the

nervous system. At six o'clock P. M. the canoe

arrived at Hudson City, which is on the east

bank of the river, and I completed a row of

thirty-eight statute miles, according to local

authority; but in reality forty-nine miles by the

correct charts of the United States Coast Survey.

After storing the Maria Theresa in a shed, I

repaired to a dismal hotel for the night.

At seven o'clock the next morning the river

was mantled in a dense fog, but I pushed off and

guided myself by the sounds of the running

trains on the Hudson River Railroad. This

corporation does such an immense amount of

freighting that, if their freight trains were

connected, a continuous line of eighty miles would

be constructed, of which sixteen miles are

always in transit day and night. Steamboats

and tugs with canal-boats in tow were groping

about the river in the misty darkness, blowing

whistles every few minutes to let people know

that the pilot was not sleeping at the wheel.

There was a grand clearing up at noon; and as

the sun broke through the mist, the beautiful

shores came into view like a vivid flame of

scarlet, yellow, brown, and green. It was the

death-song of summer, and her dying notes the

tinted leaves, each one giving to the wind a sad

strain as it softly dropped to the earth, or was

quickly hurled into space.

A few miles south of Hudson City, on the

west bank, the Catskill stream enters the river.

From this point the traveller may penetrate the

picturesque country of the Appalachian range,

where its wild elevations were called Onti Ora,

or "mountains of the sky," by the aborigines.

Roundout, on the right bank of the Hudson,

is the terminus of the Delaware and Hudson

Canal, which connects it with Port Jervis on the

Delaware, a distance of fifty-four miles. This

town, the outlet of the coal regions, I passed

after meridian. As I left Hudson on the first of

the flood-tide, I had to combat it for several

hours; but I easily reached Hyde Park Landing

(which is on the left bank of the stream and, by

local authority, thirty-five miles from Hudson

City) at five o'clock P. M. The wharf-house

sheltered the canoe, and a hotel in the village,

half a mile distant on the high plains, its owner.

I was upon the river by seven o'clock the next

morning. The day was varied by strong gusts

of wind succeeded by calms. Six miles south

of Hyde Park is the beautiful city of

Poughkeepsie with its eighteen thousand inhabitants,

and the celebrated Vassar Female College. Eight

miles down the river, and on the same side, is a

small village called New Hamburg. The rocky

promontory at the foot of which the town is

built is covered with the finest arbor vitae forest

probably in existence. Six miles below, on

west bank, is the important city of Newburg,

one of the termini of the New York and Erie

Railroad. Four miles below, the river narrows

and presents a grand view of the north entrance

of the Highlands, with the Storm King Mountain

rising fully one thousand five hundred feet above

the tide. The early Dutch navigators gave to

this peak the name of Boter-burg (Butter-Hill),

but it was rechristened Storm King by the

author N. P. Willis, whose late residence, Idlewild,

commands a fine view of Newburg Bay.

When past the Storm King, the Crow-Nest and

the almost perpendicular front of Kidd's Plug

Cliff tower aloft, and mark the spot where Kidd

(as usual) was supposed to have buried a

portion of that immense sum of money with which

popular belief invests hundreds of localities

along the watercourses of the continent. Now

the Narrows above West Point were entered

and the current against a head-wind made the

passage unusually exciting. The paper canoe

danced over the boiling expanse of water, and

neared the west shore about a mile above the

United States Military Academy, when a shell,

from a gun on the grounds of that institution

burst in the water within a few feet of the boat.

I now observed a target set upon a little flat at

the foot of a gravelly hill close to the beach.

As a second, and finally a third shell exploded

near me, I rowed into the rough water, much

disgusted with cadet-practice and military etiquette.

After dark the canoe was landed on the deck of

a schooner which was discharging slag or cinder

at Fort Montgomery Landing. I scrambled up

the hill to the only shelter that could be found, a

small country store owned by a Captain Conk

who kept entertainment for the traveller. Rough

fellows and old crones came in to talk about the

spooks that had been seen in the neighboring

hills. It was veritable "Sleepy Hollow" talk.

The physician of the place, they said, had been

"skert clean off a bridge the other night."

Embarking the following morning from this

weird and hilly country, that prominent natural

feature, Anthony's Nose, which was located on

the opposite shore, strongly appealed to my

imagination and somewhat excited my mirth. One

needs a powerful imagination, I thought, to live

in these regions where the native element, the

hill-folk, dwell so fondly and earnestly upon the

ghostly and mysterious. Three miles down the

river, Dunderberg, "the thundering mountain,"

on the west bank, with the town of Peekskill on

the opposite shore, was passed, and I entered

Haverstraw Bay, the widest part of the river.

"Here," says the historian, "the fresh and salt

water usually contend, most equally, for the

mastery; and here the porpoise is often seen in

large numbers sporting in the summer sun. Here

in the spring vast numbers of shad are caught

while on their way to spawning-beds in

freshwater coves." Haverstraw Bay was crossed, and

Tarrytown passed, when I came to the

picturesque little cottage of a great man now gone

from among us. Many pleasant memories of

his tales rose in my mind as I looked upon

Sunnyside, the home of Washington Irving,

nestled in the grove of living green, its white

stuccoed walls glistening in the bright sunlight,

and its background of grand villas looming up on

every side. At Irvington Landing, a little further

down the river, I went ashore to pass Sunday

with friends; and on the Monday following, in a

dense fog, proceeded on my route to New York.

Below Irvington the far-famed "Palisades,"

bold-faced precipices of trap-rock, offer their

grandest appearance on the west side of the

Hudson. These singular bluffs, near Hoboken,

present a perpendicular front of three hundred or

four hundred feet in height. Piles of broken rock

rest against their base: the contribution of the

cliffs above from the effects of frost and sun.

While approaching the great city of New

York, strong squalls of wind, blowing against

the ebb-tide, sent swashy waves into my open

canoe, the sides of which, amidships, were only

five or six inches above water; but the great

buoyancy of the light craft and its very smooth

exterior created but little friction in the water

and made her very seaworthy, when carefully

watched and handled, even without a deck of

canvas or wood. While the canoe forged ahead

through the troubled waters, and the breezes

loaded with the saltness of the sea now near at

hand struck my back, I confess that a longing to

reach Philadelphia, where I could complete my

outfit and increase the safety of my little craft,

gave renewed vigor to my stroke as I exchanged

the quiet atmosphere of the country for the

smoke and noise of the city. Every instinct was

now challenged, and every muscle brought into

action, as I dodged tug-boats, steamers, yachts,

and vessels, while running the thoroughfare

along the crowded wharves between New York

on one side and Jersey City on the other. I

found the slips between the piers most excellent

ports of refuge at times, when the ferry-boats,

following each other in quick succession, made

the river with its angry tide boil like a vortex.

The task soon ended, and I left the Hudson at

Castle Garden and entered the upper bay of New

York harbor. As it was dark, I would gladly

have gone ashore for the night, but a great city

offers no inducement for a canoeist to land as a

stranger at its wharves.

A much more pleasant reception awaited me

down on Staten Island, a gentleman having

notified me by mail that he would welcome the

canoe and its owner. The ebb had ceased, and

the incoming tide was being already felt close

in shore; so with tide and wind against me,

and the darkness of night settling down gloomily

upon the wide bay, I pulled a strong oar for five

miles to the entrance of Kill Van Kull Strait,

which separates Staten Island from New Jersey

and connects the upper bay with Raritan Bay.

The bright beams from the light-house on

Robbin's Reef, which is one mile and a quarter

off the entrance of the strait, guided me on my

course. The head-sea, in little, splashy waves,

began to fill my canoe. The water soon reached

the foot-rest; but there was no time to stop to

bale out the boat, for a friendly current was near,

and if once reached, my little craft would enter

smoother waters. The flood which poured into

the mouth of Kill Van Kull soon caught my

boat, and the head-tide was changed to a favorable

current which carried me in its strong arms

far into the salt-water strait, and I reached West

New Brighton, along the high banks of which I

found my haven of rest. Against the sky I

traced the outlines of my land-mark, three

poplars, standing sentinel-like before the house of

the gentleman who had so kindly offered me his

hospitality. The canoe was emptied of its

shifting liquid ballast and carefully sponged dry.

My host and his son carried it into the main hall

of the mansion and placed it upon the floor,

where the entire household gathered, an

admiring group. Proud, indeed, might my dainty

craft have been of the appreciation of so lovely

a company. her master fully appreciated the

generous board of his kind host, and in present

comfort soon forgot past trials and his wet pull

across the upper bay of New York harbor.

My work for the next day, October 27th, was

the navigation of the interesting strait of the old

Dutch settlers and the Raritan River, of New

Jersey, as far as New Brunswick. The average

width of Kill Van Kull is three-eighths of a mile.

From its entrance, at Constable's Point, to the

mouth of Newark Bay, which enters it on the

Jersey side, it is three miles, and nearly two

miles across the bay to Elizabethport. Bergen

Point is on the east and Elizabethport on the west

entrance of the bay, while on Staten Island, New

Brighton, Factoryville, and North Shore, furnish

homes for many New York business men.

At Elizabethport the strait narrows to one

eighth of a mile, and as the mouth of the

Rahway is approached it widens. It now runs

through marshes for most of the way, a distance

of twelve miles to Raritan Bay, which is an arm

of the lower bay of New York harbor. The

strait, from Elizabethport to its mouth, is called

Arthur Kill; the whole distance through the

Kills, from Constable's Point to Raritan Bay, is

about seventeen statute miles. At the mouth of

Arthur Kill the Raritan River opens to the bay,

and the city of Perth Amboy rests on the point

of high land between the river and the strait.

Roseville and Tottenville are on the Staten

Island shores of Arthur Kill, the former six

miles, the latter ten miles from Elizabethport.

The tide runs swiftly through the Kills.

Leaving Mr. Campbell's residence at nine A. M., with

a tide in my favor as far as Newark Bay, I soon

had the tide against me from the other Kill until

I passed the Rahway River, when it commenced

to ebb towards Raritan Bay. The marshy shores

of the Kills were submerged in places by the

high tide, but their monotony was relieved by

the farms upon the hills back of the flats.

At one o'clock my canoe rounded the heights

upon which Perth Amboy is perched, with its

snug cottages, the homes of many oystermen

whose fleet of boats was anchored in front of the

town. Curious yard-like pens constructed of

poles rose out of the water, in which boats could

find shelter from the rough sea.

The entrance to the Raritan River is wide,

and above its mouth it is crossed by a long

railroad bridge. The pull up the crooked river

(sixteen miles) against a strong ebb-tide, through

extensive reedy marshes, was uninteresting. I

came upon the entrance of the canal which connects

the rivers Raritan and Delaware after six

o'clock P. M., which at this season of the year

was after dark. Hiding the canoe in a secure

place I went to visit an old friend, Professor

George Cook, of the New Jersey State Geological

Survey, who resides at New Brunswick. In the

morning the professor kindly assisted me, and

we climbed the high bank of the canal with the

canoe upon our shoulders, putting it into the

water below the first two locks. I now

commenced an unexciting row of forty-two miles to

Bordentown, on the Delaware, where this

artificial watercourse ends.

This canal is much travelled by steam tugs

towing schooners of two hundred tons, and by

barges and canal-boats of all sizes drawing not

above seven feet and a half of water. The

boats are drawn through the locks by stationary

steam-engines, the use of which is discontinued

when the business becomes slack; then the

boatmen use their mules for the same purpose. To

tow an average-sized canal-boat, loaded, requires

four mules, while an empty one is easily drawn

by two. It proved most expeditious as well as

convenient not to trouble the lock-master to open

the gates, but to secure his assistance in carrying

the canoe along the tow-path to the end of the

lock, which service occupied less than five

minutes. In this way the canoe was carried around

seven locks the first day, and when dusk

approached she was sheltered beside a paper shell

in the boat-house of Princeton College Club,

which is located on the banks of the canal about

one mile and a half from the city of Princeton.

In this narrow watercourse these

indefatigable collegians, under great disadvantages, drill

their crews for the annual intercollegiate struggle

for championship. One Noah Reed provided

entertainment for man and beast at his country

inn half a mile from the boat-house, and thither

I repaired for the night.

This day's row of twenty-six miles and a

half had been through a hilly country,

abounding in rich farm lands which were well

cultivated. The next morning an officer of the

Princeton Bank awaited my coming on the banks

of the sluggish canal. He had taken an early

walk from the town to see the canoe. At

Baker's Basin the bridge-tender, a one-legged man,

pressed me to tarry till he could summon the

Methodist minister, who had charged him to

notify him of the approach of a paper canoe.

Through all my boat journeys I have remarked

that professional men take more interest in canoe

journeys than professional oarsmen; and nearly

all the canoeists of my acquaintance are

ministers of the gospel. It is an innocent way of

obtaining relaxation; and opportunities thus offered

the weary clergyman of studying nature in her

ever-changing but always restful moods, must

indeed be grateful after being for months in daily

contact with the world, the flesh, and the devil.

The tendency of the present age to liberal ideas

permits clergymen in large towns and cities to

drive fast horses, and spend an hour of each day

at a harmless game of billiards, without giving

rise to remarks from his own congregation, but

let the overworked rector of a country village

seek in his friendly canoe that relief which nature

offers to the tired brain, let him go into the

wilderness and live close to his Creator by studying

his works, and a whole community vex him on

his return with "the appearance of the thing."

These self-constituted critics, who are generally

ignorant of the laws which God has made to

secure health and give contentment to his creatures,

would poison the sick man's body with drugs and

nostrums when he might have the delightful and

generally successful services of Dr. Camp Cure

without the after dose of a bill. These

hardworked and miserably paid country clergymen,

who are rarely, nowadays, treated as the head

of the congregation or the shepherd of the flock

they are supposed to lead, but rather as victims

of the whims of influential members of the

church, tell me that to own a canoe is indeed a

cross, and that if they spend a vacation in the

grand old forests of the Adirondacks, the

brethren are sorely exercised over the time wasted in

such unusual and unministerial conduct.

Everywhere along the route the peculiar

character of the paper canoe attracted many remarks

from the bystanders. The first impression given

was that I had engaged in this rowing enterprise

under the stimulus of a bet; and when the

curious were informed that it was a voyage of

study, the next question was "How much are you

going to make out of it?" Upon learning that

there was neither a bet nor money in it, a shade

of disappointment and incredulity rested upon

the features of the bystanders, and the canoeist

was often rated as a "blockhead" for risking his

life without being paid for it.

At Trenton the canal passes through the city

and here it was necessary to carry the boat

around two locks. At noon the canoe ended

her voyage of forty-two miles by reaching the

last lock, on the Delaware River, at Bordentown,

New Jersey, where friendly arms received the

Maria Theresa and placed her on the trestles

which had supported her sister craft, the Mayeta,

in the shop of the builder, Mr. J. S. Lamson,

situated under the high cliffs along the crests of

which an ex-king of Spain, in times gone by,

was wont to walk and sadly ponder on his exile

from la belle France.

The Rev. John H. Barkeley, proprietor as well

as principal of the Bordentown Female

Seminary, took me to his ancient mansion, where

Thomas Paine, of old Revolutionary war times,

had lodged. Not the least attraction in the

home of my friend was the group of fifty young

ladies, who were kind enough to gather upon a

high bluff when I left the town, and wave

graceful farewell to the paper canoe as she

entered the tidal current of the river Delaware en

route for the Quaker city.

During my short stay in Bordentown Mr.

Isaac Gabel kindly acted as my guide and we

explored the Bonaparte Park, which is on the

outskirts of the town. The grounds are

beautifully laid out. Some of the old houses of the

ex-king's friends and attendants still remain in a

fair state of preservation. The elegant residence

of Joseph Bonaparte, or the Count de

Surveilliers, which was always open to American

visitors of all classes, was torn down by Mr. Hairy

Beckon, an Englishman in the diplomatic

service of the British government, who purchased

this property some years after the Count returned

to Europe, and erected a more elaborate

mansion near the old site. The old citizens of

Bordentown hold in grateful remembrance the

favors showered upon them by Joseph Bonaparte

and his family, who seem to have lived a

democratic life in the grand old park. The Count

returned to France in 1838, and never visited

the United States again. New Jersey had

welcomed the exiled monarch, and had given him

certain legal privileges in property rights which

New York had refused him; so he settled upon

the lovely shores of the fair Delaware, and

lavished his wealth upon the people of the state

that had so kindly received him. The citizens

of neighboring states becoming somewhat

jealous of the good luck that had befallen New

Jersey in her capture of the Spanish king, applied

to the state the cognomen of "New Spain,"

and called the inhabitants thereof "Spaniards."

The Delaware River, the Makeriskitton of the

savage, upon whose noble waters my paper

canoe was now to carry me southward, has its

sources in the western declivity of the Catskill

Mountains, in the state of New York. It is fed

by two tributary streams, the Oquago (or

Coquago) and the Popacton, which unite their

waters at the boundary line of Pennsylvania, at

the northeast end of the state, from which it

flows southward seventy miles, separating the

Empire and Keystone states. When near Port

Jervis, which town is connected with Rondout

on the Hudson River, by the Hudson and

Delaware Canal, the Delaware turns sharply to the

southwest, and becomes the boundary line

between the states of New Jersey and

Pennsylvania. Below Easton the river again takes a

Southeasterly course, and flowing past Trenton,

Bristol, Bordentown, Burlington, Philadelphia,

Camden, Newcastle, and Delaware City, empties

its waters into Delaware Bay about forty miles

below Philadelphia.

This river has about the same length as the

Hudson -- three hundred miles. The tide

reaches one hundred and thirty-two miles from

the sea at Cape May and Cape Henlopen.

Philadelphia is the head of navigation for vessels of

the heaviest tonnage; Trenton for light-draught

steamboats. At Bordentown the river is less

than half a mile wide; at Philadelphia it is

three-fourths of a mile in width; while at

Delaware City it widens to two miles and a half.

Delaware Bay is twenty-six miles across in the

widest part, which is some miles within the

entrance of the Capes.

October 31st was cool and gusty. The river

route to Philadelphia is twenty-nine statute miles.

The passage was made against a strong head-wind,

with swashy waves, which made me again regret

that I did not have my canoe-decking made at

Troy, instead of at Philadelphia. The

highly cultivated farms and beautiful country-seats along

both the Pennsylvania and New Jersey sides

of the river spoke highly of the rich character

of the soil and the thrift of the inhabitants.

These river counties of two states may be called

a land of plenty, blessed with bountiful

harvests.

Quaker industry and wise economy in

managing the agricultural affairs of this section in

the early epochs of our country's settlement

have borne good fruit. All praise to the

memory of William Penn of Pennsylvania and his

worthy descendants. The old towns of

Bristol on the right, and Burlington on the left

bank, embowered in vernal shades, have a most

comfortable and home-like appearance.

At five o'clock P. M. I arrived at the city pier

opposite the warehouse of Messrs. C. P. Knight

& Brother, No. 114 South Delaware Avenue,

where, after a struggle with wind and wave for

eight hours, the canoe was landed and deposited

with the above firm, the gentlemen of which

kindly offered to care for it while I tarried in

the "City of Brotherly Love."

Among the many interesting spots hallowed

by memories of the past in which Philadelphia

abounds, and which are rarely sought out by

visitors, two especially claim the attention of

the naturalist. One is the old home of

William Bartram, on the banks of the Schuylkill at

Grey's Ferry; the other, the grave of Alexander

Wilson, friends and co-laborers in nature's

extended field; -- the first a botanist, the second the

father of American ornithology.

William Bartram, son of the John Bartram

who was the founder of the Botanic Garden on

the west bank of the Schuylkill, was born at

that interesting spot in 1739. All botanists are

familiar with the results of his patient labors and

his pioneer travels in those early days, through

the wilderness of what now constitutes the

southeastern states. One who visited him at his

home says: "Arrived at the botanist's garden,

we approached an old man who, with a rake in

his hand, was breaking the clods of earth in a

tulip-bed. His hat was old, and flapped over

his Etee; his coarse shirt was seen near his neck,

as he wore no cravat nor kerchief; his waistcoat

and breeches were both of leather, and his shoes

were tied with leather strings. We approached

and accosted him. He ceased his work, and

entered into conversation with the ease and

politeness of nature's nobleman. His

countenance was expressive of benignity and

happiness. This was the botanist, traveller and

philosopher we had come to see."

William Bartram gave important assistance

and encouragement to the friendless Scotch

pedagogue, Alexander Wilson, while the latter was

preparing his American Ornithology for the

press. This industrious and peaceable botanist

died within the walls of his dearly-loved home

a few minutes after he had penned a description

of a plant. He died in 1823, in the eighty-fifth

year of his age. The old house of John and

William Bartram remains nearly the same as

when the last Bartram died, but the grounds

have been occupied and improved by the present

proprietor, whose fine mansion is near the old

residence of the two botanists.

Without ample funds to enable him to carry

out his bold design, Alexander Wilson labored

and suffered in body and mind for several years,

until his patient and persistent efforts achieved

the success they so richly merited. All but the

last volume of his American Ornithology were

completed when the overworked naturalist died.

The old Swedes' Church is the most ancient

religious edifice in Philadelphia, and is located

near the wharves in the vicinity of Christian and

Swanson streets, in the old district of

Southwark. The Swedes had settlements on the

Delaware before Penn visited America. They built

a wooden edifice for worship in 1677, on the

spot where the brick "Swedes' Church" now

stands, and which was erected in 1700.

Threading narrow streets, with the stenographic

reporter of the courts, Mr. R. A. West, for my

guide, we came into a quiet locality where the

ancient landmark reared its steeple, like the

finger of faith pointing heavenward. Few indeed

must be the fashionable Christians who worship

under its unpretentious roof, but there is an air

of antiquity surrounding it which interests every

visitor who enters its venerable doorway.

The church-yard is very contracted in area

yet there is room for trees to grow within its

sacred precincts, and birds sometimes rest there

while pursuing their flight from the Schuylkill

to the Delaware. Among the crowded graves

is a square brick structure, covered with an

horizontal slab of white marble, upon which I read:

"THIS MONUMENT COVER5 THE REMAINS OF

ALEXANDER WILSON,

AUTHOR OF THE AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY.

HE WAS BORN IN RENFREWSHIRE, SCOTLAND, ON THE 6 JULY, 1766;

EMIGRATED TO THE UNITED STATES IN THE YEAR 1794;

AND DIED IN PHILADELPHIA, OF THE DYSENTERY,

ON THE 23 AUGUST, 1813, AGED 47.

Ingenio stat sine morte decus."

Philadelphia has been called the, "city of

homes," and well does she merit that

comfortably sounding title, for it is not a misnomer.

Unlike some other large American cities, the

artisan and laborer can here own a home by

becoming a member of a building association

and paying the moderate periodical dues. Miles

upon miles of these cosy little houses, of five or

six rooms each, may be found, the inmates of

which are a good and useful class of citizens,

adding strength to the city's discipline and

government.

The grand park of three thousand acres, one

of, if not the largest in the world, is near at

hand, where the poor as well as the rich can

resort at pleasure. I took leave of the beautiful

and well laid-out city with a pang of regret not

usual with canoeists, who find it best for their

comfort and peace of mind to keep with their

dainty crafts away from the heterogeneous and

not over-civil population which gathers along

the water-fronts of a port.

CHAPTER VII. PHILADELPHIA TO CAPE HENLOPEN.

DESCENT OF DELAWARE RIVER. -- MY FIRST CAMP. -- BOMBAY

HOOK. -- MURDERKILL CREEK. -- A STORM IN DELAWARE BAY. --

CAPSIZING OF THE CANOE. -- A SWIM FOR LIFE. -- THE

PERSIMMON GROVE. -- WILLOW GROVE INN. -- THE LIGHTS OF

CAPES MAY AND HENLOPEN.

Monday, November 9, was a cold, wet

day. Mr. Knight and the old,

enthusiastic gunsmith-naturalist of the city, Mr. John

Krider, assisted me to embark in my now

decked, provisioned, and loaded canoe. The

stock of condensed food would easily last me a

month, while the blankets and other parts of the

outfit were good for the hard usage of four or

five months. My friends shouted adieu as the

little craft shot out from the pier and rapidly

descended the river with the strong ebb-tide

which for two hours was in her favor. The

anchorage of the iron Monitor fleet at League

Island was soon passed, and the great city sank

into the gloom of its smoke and the clouds of

rainy mist which enveloped it.

This pull was an exceedingly dreary one. The

storms of winter were at hand, and even along

the watercourses between Philadelphia and

Norfolk, Virginia, thin ice would soon be forming in

the shallow coves and creeks. It would be

necessary to exert all my energies to get south

of Hatteras, which is located on the North

Carolina coast in a region of storms and local

disturbances. The canoe, though heavily laden,

behaved well. I now enjoyed the advantages

resulting from the possession of the new canvas

deck-cover, which, being fastened by buttons

along each gunwale of the canoe, securely

covered the boat, so that the occasional swash sent

aboard by wicked tug-boats and large schooners

did not annoy me or wet my precious cargo.

By two o'clock P. M. the rain and wind caused

me to seek shelter at Mr. J. C. Beach's cottage,

at Markus Hook, some twenty miles below

Philadelphia, and on the same side of the river.

While Mr. Beach was varnishing the little craft,

crowds of people came to feel of the canoe,

giving it the usual punching with their finger-nails,

"to see if it were truly paper." A young

Methodist minister with his pretty wife came also to

satisfy their curiosity on the paper question, but

the dominie offered me not a word of

encouragement in my undertaking. He shook his head

and whispered to his wife: "A wild, wild

enterprise indeed." Markus Hook derived its name

from Markee, an Indian chief, who sold it to the

civilized white man for four barrels of whiskey.

The next morning, in a dense fog, I followed

the shores of the river, crossing the Pennsylvania

and Delaware boundary line half a mile below

the "Hook;" and entered Delaware, the little state

of three counties. Thirty-five miles below, the

water becomes salt. Reaching New Castle,

which contained half its present number of

inhabitants before Philadelphia was founded, I

pulled across to the New Jersey side of the river

and skirted the marshy shore past the little Pea

Patch Island, upon which rises in sullen

dreariness Fort Delaware. West of the Island is

Delaware City, where the Chesapeake and

Delaware Canal, fourteen miles in length, has one

of its termini, the other being on a river which

empties into Chesapeake Bay. Philadelphia and

Baltimore steamboat lines utilize this canal in

the passage of their boats from one city to the

other.

After crossing Salem Cove, and passing its

southern point, Elsinborough, five miles and a

half below Fort Delaware, the inhospitable

marshes became wide and desolate, warning me

to secure a timely shelter for the night. Nearly

two miles below Point Elsinborough the high

reeds were divided by a little creek, into which I

ran my canoe, for upon the muddy bank could be

seen a deserted, doorless fish-cabin, into which I

moved my blankets and provisions, after cutting

with my pocket-knife an ample supply of dry

reeds for a bed. Drift-wood, which a friendly

tide had deposited around the shanty, furnished

the material for my fire, which lighted up the

dismal hovel most cheerfully. And thus I kept

house in a comfortable manner till morning,

being well satisfied with the progress I had

made that day in traversing the shores of three

states. The booming of the guns of wild-fowl

shooters out upon the water roused me before

dawn, and I had ample time before the sun arose

to prepare breakfast from the remnant of canned

ox-tail soup left over from last night's supper.

I was now in Delaware Bay, which was

assuming noble proportions. From my camp I crossed

to the west shore below Reedy Island, and, filling

my water-bottles at a farm-house, kept upon that

shore all day. The wind arose, stirring up a

rough sea as I approached Bombay Hook, where

the bay is eight miles wide. I tried to land upon

the salt marshes, over the edges of which the

long, low seas were breaking, but failed in

several attempts. At last roller after roller,

following in quick succession, carried the little craft on

their crests to the land, and packed her in a

thicket of high reeds.

I quickly disembarked, believing it useless to

attempt to go further that day. About an eighth

of a mile from the water, rising out of the salt

grass and reeds, was a little mound, covered by

trees and bushes, into which I conveyed my

cargo by the back-load, and then easily drew the

light canoe over the level marsh to the camp.

A bed of reeds was soon cut, into which the

canoe was settled to prevent her from being

strained by the occupant at night, for I was

determined to test the strength of the boat as

sleeping-quarters. Canoes built for one person are

generally too light for such occupancy when out

of water. The tall fringe of reeds which

encircled the boat formed an excellent substitute for

chamber walls, giving me all the starry blue

heavens for a ceiling, and most effectually

screening me from the strong wind which was blowing.

As it was early when the boat was driven ashore

I had time to wander down to the brook, which

was a mile distant, and replenish my scanty stock

of water.

With the canvas deck-cover and rubber

blanket to keep off the heavy dews, the first night

passed in such contracted lodgings was endurable,

if not wholly convenient and agreeable. The

river mists were not dispelled the next day until

nine o'clock, when I quitted my warm nest in

the reeds and rowed down the bay, which seemed

to grow broader as I advanced. The bay was

still bordered by extensive marshes, with here

and there the habitation of man located upon

some slight elevation of the surface. Having

rowed twenty-six miles, and being off the mouth

of Murderkill Creek, a squall struck the canoe and

forced it on to an oyster reef, upon the sharp

shells of which she was rocked for several

minutes by the shallow breakers. Fearing that the

paper shell was badly cut, though it was still

early in the afternoon, I ascended the creek of

ominous name and associations to the landing of

an inn kept by Jacob Lavey, where I expected to

overhaul my injured craft. To my surprise and

great relief of mind there were found only a few

superficial scratches upon the horn-like

shellacked surface of the paper shell. To apply

shellac with a heated iron to the wounds made

by the oyster-shells was the work of a few

minutes, and my craft was as sound as ever. The

gunner's resort, "Bower's Beach Hotel,"

furnished an excellent supper of oyster fritters,

panfish, and fried pork-scrapple. Mine host, before

a blazing wood fire, told me of the origin of the

name of Murderkill Creek.

"In the early settlement of the country,"

began the innkeeper, "the white settlers did all

they could to civilize the Indians, but the cussed

savages wouldn't take to it kindly, but worried

the life out of the new-comers. At last a great

landed proprietor, who held a big grant of land

in these parts, thought he'd settle the troubles.

So he planted a brass cannon near the creek,

and invited all the Indians of the neighborhood

to come and hear the white man's Great Spirit

talk. The crafty man got the savages before the

mouth of the cannon, and said, 'Now look into

the hole there, for it is the mouth of the white

man's Great Spirit, which will soon speak in tones

of thunder.' The fellow then touched off the

gun, and knocked half the devils into splinters.

The others were so skeerd at the big voice they

had heard that they were afraid to move, and

were soon all killed by one charge after another

from the cannon: so the creek has been called

Murderkill ever since."

I afterwards discovered that there were other

places on the coast which had the same legend

as the one told me by the innkeeper. Holders

of small farms lived in the vicinity of this tavern,

but the post-office was at Frederica, five miles

inland. Embarking the next day, I felt sure of

ending my cruise on Delaware Bay before night,

as the quiet morning exhibited no signs of rising

winds. The little pilot town of Lewes, near

Cape Delaware, and behind the Breakwater, is a

port of refuge for storm-bound vessels. From

this village I expected to make a portage of six

miles to Love Creek, a tributary of Rehoboth

Sound. The frosty nights were now exerting a

sanitary influence over the malarial districts

which I had entered, and the unacclimated

canoeist of northern birth could safely pursue his

journey, and sleep at night in the swamps along

the fresh-water streams if protected from the

dews by a rubber or canvas covering. My hopes

of reaching the open sea that night were to be

drowned, and in cold water too; for that day,

which opened so calmly and with such smiling

promises, was destined to prove a season of trial,

and before its evening shadows closed around

me, to witness a severe struggle for life in the

cold waters of Delaware Bay.

An hour after leaving Murderkill Creek the

wind came from the north in strong squalls.

My little boat taking the blasts on her quarter,

kept herself free of the swashy seas hour after

hour. I kept as close to the sandy beach of the

great marshes as possible, so as to be near the

land in case an accident should happen.

Mispillion Creek and a light-house on the north of

its mouth were passed, when the wind and seas

struck my boat on the port beam, and continually

crowded her ashore. The water breaking on

the hard, sandy beach of the marshy coast made

it too much of a risk to attempt a landing, as the

canoe would be smothered in the swashy seas if

her head way was checked for a moment.

Amidships the canoe was only a few inches out of

water, but her great sheer, full bow, and

smoothness of hull, with watchful management, kept her

from swamping. I had struggled along for

fourteen miles since morning, and was fatigued

by the strain consequent upon the continued

manoeuvring of my boat through the rough waves.

I reached a point on Slaughter Beach, where the

bay has a width of nearly nineteen miles, when

the tempest rose to such a pitch that the great

raging seas threatened every moment to wash

over my canoe, and to force me by their violence

close into the beach. To my alarm, as the boat

rose and fell upon the waves, the heads of

sharp-pointed stakes appeared and disappeared in the

broken waters. They were the stakes of

fishermen to which they attach their nets in the season

of trout-fishing. The danger of being impaled

on one of these forced me off shore again.

There was no undertow; the seas being driven

over shoals were irregular and broken. At last my

sea came. It rolled up without a crest, square

and formidable. I could not calculate where it

would break, but I pulled for life away from it

towards the beach upon which the sea was

breaking with deafening sound. It was only for

a moment that I beheld the great brown wave,

which bore with it the mud of the shoal, bearing

down upon me; for the next, it broke astern,

sweeping completely over the canoe from stern

to stem, filling it through the opening of the

canvas round my body. Then for a while the

watery area was almost smooth, so completely

had the great wave levelled it. The canoe

being water-logged, settled below the surface,

the high points of the ends occasionally

emerging from the water. Other heavy seas followed

the first, one of which striking me as high as my

head and shoulders, turned both the canoe and

canoeist upside-down.

A Capsize in Delaware Bay (100K)

Kicking myself free of the canvas deck, I

struck out from under the shell, and quickly

rose to the surface. It was then that the words

of an author of a European Canoe Manual came

to my mind: "When you capsize, first right the

canoe and get astride it over one end, keeping

your legs in the water; when you have crawled

to the well or cockpit, bale out the boat with

your hat." Comforting as these instructions

from an experienced canoe traveller seemed

when reading them in my hermitage ashore, the

present application of them (so important a

principle in Captain Jack Bunsby's log of life)

was in this emergency an impossibility; for my

hat had disappeared with the seat-cushion and

one iron outrigger, while the oars were floating

to leeward with the canoe.

The boat having turned keel up, her great

sheer would have righted her had it not been for

the cargo, which settled itself on the canvas

deck-cloth, and ballasted the craft in that

position. So smooth were her polished sides that it

was impossible to hold on to her, for she rolled

about like a slippery porpoise in a tideway.

having tested and proved futile the kind

suggestions of writers on marine disasters, and

feeling very stiff in the icy water, I struck out in an

almost exhausted condition for the shore. Now

a new experience taught me an interesting

lesson. The seas rolled over my head and

shoulders in such rapid succession, that I found I

could not get my head above water to breathe,

while the sharp sand kept in suspension by the

agitated water scratched my face, and filled my

eyes, nostrils, and ears. While I felt this

pressing down and burying tendency of the seas, as

they broke upon my head and shoulders, I

understood the reason why so many good

swimmers are drowned in attempting to reach the

shore from a wreck on a shoal, when the wind,

though blowing heavily, is in the victim's favor.

The land was not over an eighth of a mile away,

and from it came the sullen roar of the breakers,

pounding their heavy weight upon the sandy

shingle. As its booming thunders or its angry,

swashing sound increased, I knew I was rapidly

nearing it, but, blinded by the boiling waters, I

could see nothing.

At such a moment do not stop to make vows

as to how you will treat your neighbor in future

if once safely landed, but strike out, fight as you

never fought before, swallowing as little water

as possible, and never relaxing an energy or

yielding a hope. The water shoaled; my feet

felt the bottom, and I stood up, but a roller laid

me flat on my face. Up again and down again,

swimming and crawling, I emerged from the

sea, bearing, I fear, a closer resemblance to Jonah

(being at last pitched on shore) than to

Cabnel's Venus, who was borne gracefully upon

the rosy crests of the sky-reflecting waves to

the soft bed of sparkling foam awaiting her.

Wearily dragging myself up the hard shingle,

I stood and contemplated the little streams of

water pouring from my woollen clothes. A new

danger awaited me as the cold wind whistled

down the barren beach and across the desolate

marshes. I danced about to keep warm, and for

a moment thought that my canoe voyage had

come to an unfortunate termination. Then a

buoyant feeling succeeded the moment's

depression, and I felt that this was only the first

of many trials which were necessary to prepare

me for the successful completion of my

undertaking. But where was the canoe, with its

provisions that were to sustain me, and the charts

which were to point out my way through the

labyrinth of waters she was yet to traverse?

She had drifted near the shore, but would not

land. There was no time to consider the

propriety of again entering the water. The struggle

was a short though severe one, and I dragged

my boat ashore.

Everything was wet excepting what was most

needed, -- a flannel suit, carefully rolled in a

water-proof cloth. I knew that I must change

my wet clothes for dry ones, or perish. This

was no easy task to perform, with hands

benumbed and limbs paralyzed with the cold. O

shade of Benjamin Franklin, did not one of thy

kinsmen, in his wide experience as a traveller,

foresee this very disaster, and did he not, when

I left the "City of Brotherly Love," force upon

me an antidote, a sort of spiritual fire, which my

New England temperance principles made me

refuse to accept? "It is old, very old," he

whispered, as he slipped the flask into my coat-

pocket, "and it may save your life. Don't be foolish.

I have kept it well bottled. It is a pure article,

and cost sixteen dollars per gallon. I use it only

for medicine." I found the flask; the water

had not injured it. A small quantity was taken,

when a most favorable change came over my

entire system, mental as well as physical, and I

was able to throw off one suit and put on

another in the icy wind, that might, without the

stimulant, have ended my voyage of life.

I had doctored myself homoeopathically under

the old practice. Filled with feelings of

gratitude to the Great Giver of good, I reflected, as

I carried my wet cargo into the marsh, upon the

wonderful effects of my friend's medicine when

taken only as medicine. Standing upon the cold

beach and gazing into the sea, now lashed by

the wild frenzy of the wind, I determined never

again to do so mean a thing as to say a

word against good brandy.

Having relieved my conscience by this just

resolve, I transported the whole of my wet but

still precious cargo to a persimmon grove, on

a spot of firm land that rose out of the marsh,

where I made a convenient wind-break by

stretching rubber blankets between trees. On

this knoll I built a fire, obtaining the matches

to kindle it from a water-proof safe presented to

me by Mr. Epes Sargent, of Boston, some years

before, when I was ascending the St. Johns

River, Florida.

Before dusk, all things not spoiled by the

water were dried and secreted in the tall sedge

of the marshes. The elevation which had given

me friendly shelter is known as "Hog Island."

The few persimmon-trees that grew upon it

furnished an ample lunch, for the frosts had

mellowed the plum-like fruit, making it sweet and

edible. The persimmon (Diospyrus

Virginiana) is a small tree usually found in the middle

and southern states. Coons and other animals

feast upon its fruit. The deepening gloom

warned me to seek comfortable quarters for the

night.

Two miles up the strand was an old gunners'

inn, to which I bent my steps along Slaughter

Beach, praying that one more day's effort would

take me out of this bleak region of ominous

names. A pleasant old gentleman, Mr. Charles

Todd, kept the tavern, known as Willow Grove

Hotel, more for amusement than for profit. I

said nothing to him about the peculiar manner

in which I had landed on Slaughter Beach; but

to his inquiry as to where my boat was, and

what kind of a boat it was to live in such a

blow, I replied that I found it too wet and cold

on the bay to remain there, and too rough to

proceed to Cape Henlopen, and there being no

alternative, I was obliged to land much against

my inclination, and in doing so was drenched to

the skin, but had managed to get dry before a

fire in the marshes. So the kind old man piled

small logs in the great kitchen fireplace, and

told me tale upon tale of his life as a

schoolmaster out west; of the death of his wife there,

and of his desire to return, after long years of

absence, to his native Delaware, where he could

be comfortable, and have all the clams, oysters,

fish, and bay truck generally that a man could

wish for.

"Now," he added, "I shall spend my last

days here in peace." He furnished an excellent

supper of weak-fish or sea trout (Otolithus

regalio), fried oysters, sweet potatoes, &c.

This locality offers a place of retirement for

men of small means and limited ambition. The

broad bay is a good sailing and fishing ground,

while the great marshes are the resort of many

birds. The light, warm soil responds generously

to little cultivation. After a day of hunting and

fishing, the new-comer can smoke his pipe in

peace, to the music of crackling flames in the

wide old fireplace. Here he may be

comfortable, and spend his last days quietly vegetating,

with no criticisms on his deterioration, knowing

that he is running to seed no faster than his

neighbors.

The wind had gone to rest with the sun, and

the sharp frost that followed left its congealed

breath upon the shallow pools of water nearly

half an inch in thickness by morning. From

my bed I could see through the window the

bright flashes from Cape May and Cape

Henlopen lights. Had not misfortune beset me, a

four-hours' pull would have landed me at Lewes.

There was much to be thankful for, however.

Through a merciful Providence it was my

privilege to enjoy a soft bed at the Willow Grove

Inn, and not a cold one on the sands of

Slaughter Beach. So ended my last day on Delaware

Bay.

CHAPTER VIII. FROM CAPE HENLOPEN TO NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

THE PORTAGE TO LOVE CREEK. -- THE DELAWARE

WHIPPINGPOST. -- REHOBOTH AND INDIAN RIVER BAYS. -- A PORTAGE

TO LITTLE ASSAWAMAN BAY. -- ISLE OF WIGHT BAY. --

WINCHESTER PLANTATION. -- CHINCOTEAGUE. -- WATCHAPREAGUE

INLET. -- COBB'S ISLAND. -- CHERRYSTONE. -- ARRIVAL AT

NORFOLK. -- THE "LANDMARK'S" ENTERPRISE.

My first thought the next morning was of the

lost outrigger, and how I should replace

it. My host soon solved the problem for me.

I was to drive to the scene of the late disaster in

his light, covered wagon, load it with the canoe

and cargo, and take the shortest route to Love

Creek, six miles from Lewes, stopping on the

way at a blacksmith's for a new outrigger.

We drove over sandy roads, through forests of

pine and oak, to the village of Milton, where a

curious crowd gathered round us and facetiously

asked if we had "brought the canoe all the way

from Troy in that 'ere wagon." The village

smith, without removing the paper boat from her

snug quarters, made a fair outrigger in an hour's

time, when we continued our monotonous ride

through the dreary woods to a clearing upon the

banks of a cedar swamp, where in a cottage

lived Mr. George Webb, to whom Bob Hazzle,

my driver, presented me. Having now reached

Love Creek, I deposited my canoe with Mr.

Webb, and started off for Lewes to view the

town and the ocean.

Across the entrance of Delaware Bay, from

Cape Henlopen Light to Cape May Light on the

southern end of New Jersey, is a distance of

twelve statute miles. Saturday night and

Sunday were passed in Lewes, which is situated

inside of Cape Henlopen, and behind the

celebrated stone breakwater which was constructed

by the government. This port of refuge is much

frequented by coasters, as many as two or three

hundred sails collecting here during a severe

gale. The government is building a

remarkable pier of solid iron spiles, three abreast, which,

when completed, will run out seventeen

hundred feet into the bay, and reach a depth of

twenty-three feet of water. Captain Brown, of

the Engineers, was in charge of the work. By the

application of a jet of water, forced by an

hydraulic pump through a tube down the outside of

the spile while it is being screwed into the sand,

a puddling of the same is kept up, which

relieves the strain upon the screw-flanges, and

saves fourteen-fifteenths of the time and labor

usually expended by the old method of inserting

the screw spile. This invention was a happy

thought of Captain Brown.

The government has purchased a piece of land

at Lewes for the site of a fort. Some time in the

future there will be a railroad terminating on the

pier, and coal will be brought directly from the

mines to supply the fleets which will gather

within the walls of the Breakwater. Here, free from

all danger of an ice blockade, this port will

become a safe and convenient harbor and

coaling station during the winter time for government

and other vessels.

At dusk on Sunday evening the collector of

the port, Captain Lyons, and his friends, took

me in their carriage back to Love Creek, where

Mr. Webb insisted upon making me the

recipient of his hospitality for the night. A little

crowd of women from the vicinity of the swamp

were awaiting my arrival to see the canoe. One

ancient dame, catching sight of the alcohol-stove

which I took from my vest-pocket, clapped her

thin hands and enthusiastically exclaimed, "What

a nice thing for a sick-room-the best nuss-lamp

I ever seed!" Having satisfied the curiosity of

these people, and been much amused by their

quaint remarks, I was quietly smuggled into Mr.

Webb's "best room," where, if my spirit did not

make feathery flights, it was not the fault of the

downy bed in whose unfathomable depths I now

lost myself.

Before leaving Delaware I feel it an

imperative duty to the public to refer to one of her

time-honored institutions.

Persons unacquainted with the fact will find

it difficult to believe that one state of the great

American Republic still holds to the practice of

lashing men and women, white and black.

Delaware -- one of the smallest states of the Union,

the citizens of which are proverbially generous

and hospitable, a state which has produced a

Bayard -- is, to her shame we regret to say, the

culprit which sins against the spirit of civilization

in this nineteenth century, one hundred years

after the fathers of the Republic declared equal

rights for all men. In treating of so delicate a

subject, I desire to do no one injustice; therefore

I will let a native of Delaware speak for his

community.

"DOVER, DELAWARE, August 2, 1873.

"EDITOR CAMDEN SPY: According to

promise, I now write you a little about Delaware.

Persons in your vicinity look upon the 'Little

Diamond State' as a mere bog, or marsh, and

mud and water they suppose are its chief

productions; but, in my opinion, it is one of the

finest little states in the Union. Although small,

in proportion to the size it produces more grain

and fruit than any other state in the country, and

they are unexcelled as regards quality and flavor.

Crime is kept in awe by that best of institutions,

the whipping post and pillory! These are the

bugbear of all the northern newspapers, and

they can say nothing too harsh or severe against

them. The whipping-post in Kent County is

situated in the yard of the jail, and is about six

feet in height and three feet in circumference; the

prisoner is fastened to it by means of bracelets,

or arms, on the wrist; and the sheriff executes

the sentence of the law by baring the convict to

the waist, and on the bare back lashing him

twenty, forty, or sixty times, according to the

sentence. But the blood does not run in streams

from the prisoner's back, nor is he thrown into a

barrel of brine, and salt sprinkled over the lashes.

On the contrary, I have seen them laugh, and

coolly remark that 'it's good exercise, and gives

us an appetite.' But there are others who raise

the devil's own row with their yells and horrible

cries of pain. The whipping is public, and is

witnessed each time by large numbers of people

who come from miles around to see the culprit

disgraced.

"A public whipping occurred not very long

ago, and the day was very stormy, yet there

were fully three hundred spectators on the ground

to witness this wholesome punishment! A

person who has been lashed at the whipping-post

cannot vote again in this state; thus, most of the

criminals who are whipped leave the state in

order to regain their citizenship. The newspapers

can blow until they are tired about this 'horrible,

barbaric, and unchristian punishment,' but if their

own states would adopt this form of punishment,

they would find crime continually on the

decrease. What is imprisonment for a few months

or years? It is soon over with; and then they

are again let out upon the community, to beg,

borrow, and steal. But to be publicly whipped

is an everlasting disgrace, and deters men from

committing wrong. Women are whipped in the

same manner, and they take it very hard; but, to

my recollection, there has not been a female

prisoner for some time. I did not intend to

comment so long upon the whipping-posts in the

state of Delaware.

"The pillory next claims our attention. This

is a long piece of board that runs through the

whipping-post at the top, and has holes [as per

engraving] for the neck and arms to rest in a

very constrained position. The prisoner is

compelled to stand on his toes for an hour with his

neck and arms in the holes, and if he sinks from

exhaustion, as it sometimes happens, the neck is

instantly broken. Josiah Ward, the villain who

escaped punishment for the murder of the man

Wady in your county, came into Delaware,

broke into a shoe-store, succeeded in stealing one

pair of shoes, -- was arrested, got sixty lashes at

the post, was made to stand in the pillory one

hour, is now serving out a term of two years'

imprisonment, -- and he never got the shoes!

The pillory is certainly a terrible and cruel

punishment, and, while I heartily favor the

whipping-post, I think this savage punishment should be

abolished.

"Since writing the above, I have heard that a

colored woman was convicted of murder in the

second degree last May, and on Saturday the

17th of that month received sixty lashes on her

bare back, and stood in the pillory one hour.

"What do you think of Delaware law, after

what I have written? I have written enough

for the present, so I will close, ever remaining,

Yours very truly, P. P."

For twenty years past, Delaware and

Maryland farmers have given much attention to peach

culture, which has gradually declined in New

Jersey and states further north. There are said

to be over sixty thousand acres of land on the

peninsula planted with peach-trees, which are

estimated to be worth fifty dollars per acre, or

three million dollars. To harvest this crop

requires at least twenty-five thousand men, women,

and children. The planting of an acre of

peach-trees, and its cultivation to maturity, costs from

thirty to forty dollars. The canners take a large

portion of the best peaches, which are shipped

to foreign as well as to domestic markets.

The low lands and river-shores of the

peninsula exhale malaria which attacks the inhabitants

in a mild form of ague. During the spring,

summer, and early fall months, a prudent man

will not expose himself to the air until after

the sun has risen and dispelled the mists of

morning. The same caution should be observed

all through the low regions of the south, both

as to morning and evening exercise. Chills and

fever are the bane of the southern and middle

states, as this disease affects the health and

elastic vigor of the constitution, and also

produces great mental depression. Yet those who

suffer, even on every alternate day, from chills,

seem to accept the malaria as nothing of much

importance; though it is a well-known fact that

this form of intermittent fever so reduces the

strength, that the system is unable to cope with

other and more dangerous diseases for which it

paves the way.

Upon a little creek, tributary to St. Martin's

River, and near its confluence with the Isle of

Wight Bay, a long day's pull from the swamp of

Love Creek, was the old plantation home of a

friend of my boyhood, Mr. Taylor, who about

this time was looking out for the arrival of the

paper canoe. It was a question whether I could

descend Love Creek three miles, cross Rehoboth

and Indian River sounds, ascend White's Creek,

make a portage to Little Assawaman Bay, thread

the thoroughfare west of Fenwick's Island Light,

cross the Isle of Wight Bay, ascend and cross St.

Martin's River to Turval's Creek, and reach the

home of my friend, all in one day. But I

determined to attempt the task. Mr. Webb roused his

family at an early hour, and I rowed down Love

Creek and crossed the shallow waters of

Rehoboth Bay in the early part of the day.

From Cape Henlopen, following the general

contour of the coast, to Cape Charles at the

northern entrance of Chesapeake Bay, is a

distance of one hundred and thirty-six miles; from

Cape Charles across the mouth of Chesapeake

Bay to Cape Henry is thirteen miles; from

Henlopen south, the state of Delaware occupies

about twenty miles of the coast; the eastern

shore of Maryland holds between thirty and

forty miles, while the eastern shore of Virginia,

represented by the counties of Accomac and

Northampton, covers the peninsula to Cape

Charles.

Commencing at Rehoboth Bay, a small boat

may follow the interior waters to the Chesapeake

Bay. The watercourses of this coast are

protected from the rough waves of the ocean by

long, narrow, sandy islands, known as beaches,

between which the tides enter. These passages

from the sea to the interior waters are called

inlets, and most of them are navigable for

coasting vessels of light draught. These inlets are so

influenced by the action of storms, and their

shores and locations are so changed by them,

that the cattle may graze to-day in tranquil

happiness where only a generation ago the old skipper

navigated his craft. During June of the year

1821 a fierce gale opened Sandy Point Inlet with

a foot depth of water, but it closed in 1831.

Green Point Inlet was cut through the beach

during a gale in 1837, and was closed up seven

years later. Old Sinepuxent Inlet, which was

forced open by the sea more than sixty years

ago, closed in 1831. These three inlets were

within a space of three miles, and were all north

of Chincoteague village. Green Run Inlet,

which had a depth of about six feet of water for

nearly ten years, also closed after shifting half a

mile to the south of its original location. The

tendency of inlets on this coast is to shift to the

southward, as do the inlets on the coast of New

Jersey.

Oystermen, fishermen, and farmers live along

the upland, and in some cases on the island

beaches. From these bays, timber, firewood,

grain, and oysters are shipped to northern ports.

The people are everywhere kind and hospitable

to strangers. A mild climate, cheap and easily

worked soils, wild-fowl shooting, fine oysters and

fishing privileges, offer inducements to

Northerners and Europeans to settle in this country;

the mild form of ague which exists in most

of its localities being the only objection. While

debating this point with a native, he attacked my

argument by saying:

"Law sakes! don't folks die of something,

any way? If you don't have fever 'n' ague round

Massachusetts, you've got an awful lot of things

we hain't got here -- a tarnashun sight wuss ones,

too; sich as cumsempsun, brown-critters, mental

spinageetis, lung-disease, and all sorts of

brownkill disorders. Besides, you have such awful

cold winters that a farmer has to stay holed four

months out of the year, while we folks in the

south can work most of the time out of doors.

I'll be dog-goned if I hadn't ruther live here in

poverty than die up north a-rolling in riches.

Now, stranger, as to what you said about

sickness, why we aren't no circumstance to you

fellows up north. Why, your hull country is

chuckfull of pizenous remedies. When I was a-coasting

along Yankeedom and went ashore, I found

all the rocks along the road were jist kivered

with quack-medicine notices, and all the farmers

hired out the outsides of their barns to advertise

doctor's stuff on."

In no portion of America do the people seem

to feel the burden of earning a livelihood more

lightly. They get a great deal of social

enjoyment out of life at very little cost, and place

much less value on the "mighty dollar" than do

their brother farmers of the northern section of

the states. The interesting inquiry of "Who was

his father?" commences at Philadelphia, and its

importance intensifies as you travel southward.

Old family associations have great weight among

all classes.

It was six miles from the mouth of Love Creek

across the little sound to Burton's marshy island

at the entrance of Indian River Sound. Indian

River supplies its bay with much of its fresh

water, and the small inlet in the beach of the

same name with the salt water of the ocean.

Large flocks of geese and ducks were seen upon

the quiet waters of the sound. Pursuing my

southward course across Indian River Sound

three miles, I entered a small creek with a wide

mouth, which flows north from the cedar swamp,

known as White's Creek, which I ascended until

the stream became so narrow that it seemed

almost lost in the wilderness, when suddenly

an opening in the forest showed me a clearing

with the little buildings of a farm scattered

around. It was the home of a Methodist

exhorter, Mr. Silas J. Betts. I told him how

anxious I was to make a quick portage to the

nearest southern water, Little Assawaman Bay,

not much more than three miles distant by road.

After calmly examining my boat, he said: "It

is now half-past eleven o'clock. Wife has dinner

about ready. I'll hurry her up a little, and while

she is putting it on the table we will get the cart

ready." The cart was soon loaded with pine

needles as a bed for the canoe. We lashed her

into a firm position with cords, and went in to

dinner.

In a short time after, we were rattling over a

level, wooded country diversified here and there

by a little farm. The shallow bay, the east side

of which was separated from the ocean by sandy

hills, was bounded by marshes. We drove close

to the water and put the Maria Theresa once

more into her true element. A friendly shake

of the hand as I paid the conscientious man his

charge of one dollar for his services, with many

thanks for his hospitality, for which he would

accept nothing -- and the canoe was off, threading

the narrow and very shallow channel-way of this

grassy-bottomed bay.

The tall tower of Fenwick's Island Light,

located on the boundary line of Delaware and

Maryland, was now my landmark. It rises out

of the low land that forms a barrier against

which the sea breaks. The people on the coast

pronounce Fenwick "Phoenix." Phoenix Island,

they say, was once a part of the mainland, but a

woman, wishing to keep her cattle from

straying, gave a man a shirt for digging a narrow

ditch between Little and Great Assawaman

bays. The tide ebbed and flowed so strongly

through this new channel-way that it was worn

to more than a hundred feet in width, and has

at high tide a depth in places of from ten to

fifteen feet of water. The opening of this new

thoroughfare so diminished the flow of water

through the Little Assawaman Inlet to the sea,

that it became closed. The water was almost

fresh here, as the nearest inlet which admits salt

water at high tide is at Chincoteague Island,

some fifty miles distant.

Passing to the west of the light-house through

this passage, I thought of what a woman could

do, and almost expected to hear from the rippling

waters the "Song of the Shirt," which would

have been in this case a much more cheerful

one than Hood's. I now entered Great

Assawaman Bay, the waters of which lay like a

mirror before me; and nearly five miles away, to the

southwestern end, the tall forests of the Isle of

Wight loomed up against the setting sun. Ducks

rose in flocks from the quiet waters as my canoe

glided into their close vicinity. If I could have

taken less cargo, I should have carried a light

gun; but this being impossible, a pocket

revolver was my only fire-arm: so the ducks and

other wild-fowl along my route had reason to

hold the paper canoe in grateful remembrance.

Upon reaching the shores of the Isle of Wight

I entered the mouth of St. Martin's River, which

is, at its confluence with Isle of Wight Bay, more

than two miles wide. I did not then possess the

fine Coast Chart No.28, or the General Chart

of the Coast, No.4, with the topography of the

land clearly delineated, and showing every man's

farm-buildings, fields, landings, &c., so plainly

located as to make it easy for even a novice to

navigate these bays. Now, being chartless so

far as these waters were concerned, I peered

about in the deepening twilight for my friend's

plantation buildings, which I knew were not far

off; but the gloomy forests of pine upon the

upland opened not the desired vista I so longed

to find.

Crossing the wide river, I came upon a long

point of salt-marsh, which I hoped might be

Keyser's Point, for I knew that to the west of

this point I should find Turval's Creek. While

rowing along the marsh I came upon two

duck-shooters in their punt, but so enveloped were

they in the mist that it was impossible to do

more than define their forms. I, however,

ventured a question as to my locality, when, to my

utter astonishment, there came back to me in

clear accents my own name. Never before had

it sounded so sweet to my ears. It was the

voice of my friend, who with a companion

was occupied in removing from the water the

flock of decoys which they had been

guarding since sunrise. Joyful was the unexpected

meeting.

We rowed around Keyser's Point, and up

Turval's Creek, a couple of miles to the plantation

landing. There, upon the old estate in the little

family burial-ground, slept, "each in his narrow

cell," the children of four generations. Our

conversation before the blazing wood-fire that night

related to the ground travelled over during the day,

a course of about thirty-five miles. Mr. Taylor's

father mentioned that a friend, during one week

in the previous September, had taken upon his

hook, while fishing from the marshes of

Rehoboth Bay, five hundred rock-fish, some of which

weighed twenty pounds. The oysters in

Rehoboth and Indian River bays had died out,

probably from the decrease in the amount of

salt water now entering them. A delightful

week was spent with my friends at Winchester

Plantation, when the falling of the mercury

warned me to hurry southward.

On Wednesday, November 25, I descended

the plantation creek and rowed out of St.

Martin's River into the Bay. My course southward

led me past "the Hommack," an Indian mound

of oyster-shells, which rises about seven feet

above the marsh on the west side of the entrance

to Sinepuxent bay, and where the mainland

approaches to within eight hundred feet of the

beach. This point, which divides the Isle of

Wight Bay from Sinepuxent, is the terminus of

the Wicomico and Pocomoke Railroad, which

has been extended from Berlin eastwardly seven

miles. A short ferry conveys the passengers

across the water to a narrow island beach, which

is considered by Bayard Taylor, the author, the

finest beach he has ever visited. This new

watering-place is called Ocean City; and my

friend, B. Jones Taylor, was treasurer of the

company which was engaged in making the

much-desired improvements. The shallow bays

in the vicinity of Ocean City offer safe and

pleasant sailing-grounds. The summer fishing

consists chiefly of white perch, striped bass, sheep's-head,

weak-fish, and drum. In the fall, bluefish

are caught. All of these, with oysters, soft

crabs, and diamond-backed terrapin, offer

tempting dishes to the epicure. This recently isolated

shore is now within direct railroad

communication with Philadelphia and New York, and can

be reached in nine hours from the former, and

in twelve hours from the latter city.

From the Hommack to South Point is included

the length of Sinepuxent Bay, according to Coast

Survey authority. From South Point to below

the middle of Chincoteague Island the bay is

put down as "Assateague," though the oystermen

do not call it by that name. The celebrated

oyster-beds of the people of Chincoteague

commence about twenty miles south of the

Hornmack. There are two kinds of oysters shipped

from Chincoteague Inlet to New York and

other markets. One is the long native plant

the other, that transplanted from Chesapeake

Bay: this bivalve is rounded in form, and the

most prized of the two. The average width of

Sinepuxent was only a mile. When I turned

westwardly around South Point, and entered

Assateague Bay, the watery expanse widened,

between the marshes on the west and the

sandy-beach island on the east, to over four miles.

The debouchure of Newport Creek is to the

west of South Point. The marshes here are

very wide. I ascended it in the afternoon to

visit Dr. F. J. Purnell, whose attempts to

introduce the pinnated grouse and California

partridges on his plantation had attracted the

attention of Mr. Charles Hallock, editor of "Forest

and Stream"; and I had promised him, if

possible, to investigate the matter. This South Point

of Sinepuxent Neck is a place of historical

interest, it being now asserted that it is the

burial place of Edward Whalley, the regicide.

Early in 1875, Mr. Robert P. Robins found in a

bundle of old family documents a paper containing

interesting statements written by his great-great-grandfather,

Thomas Robins, 3d, of South Point,

Worcester County, Maryland, and dated July 8,

1769. We gather from this reliable source that

Edward Whalley left Connecticut and arrived in

Virginia in 1618, and was there met by a portion

of his family. From Virginia he travelled to

the "province of Maryland, and settled first at

ye mouth of ye Pokemoke River; and finding

yt too publick a place he came to Sinepuxent, a

neck of land open to ye Atlantic Ocean, where

Colonel Stephen was surveying and bought a

tract of land from him and called it Genezar; it

contained two thousand two hundred acres, south

end of Sinepuxent; and made a settlement on ye

southern extremity, and called it South Point; to

ye which place he brought his family about 1687,

in ye name of Edward Middleton. His own name

he made not publick until after this date, after ye

revolution in England, (in ye year of our Lord

1688,) when he let his name be seen in publick

papers, and had ye lands patented in his own

name."

The writer of the above quotation was the

great-grandson of Edward Whalley (alias Edward

Middleton), the celebrated regicide.

Four miles from South Point I struck the

marshes which skirted Dr. Purnell's large

plantation, and pushing the canoe up a narrow branch

of the creek, I waded through the partially

submerged herbage to the firm ground, where the

doctor was awaiting me. His house was close

at hand, within the hospitable walls of which I

passed the night. Dr. Purnell has an estate of

one thousand five hundred acres, lying along the

banks of Newport Creek. Since the civil war it

has been worked by tenants. Much of it is

woodland and salt-marshes. Five years before

my visit, a Philadelphian sent the doctor a few

pairs of prairie-chickens, and a covey of both the

valley and the mountain partridge. I am now

using popular terms. The grouse were from a

western state; the partridges had been obtained

from California. The partridges were kept caged

for several weeks and were then set at liberty.

They soon disappeared in the woods, with the

exception of a single pair, which returned daily

to the kitchen-door of a farm tenant to obtain

food. These two birds nested in the garden

close to the house, and reared a fine brood of

young; but the whole covey wandered away, and

were afterwards heard from but once. They

had crossed to the opposite side of Newport

Creek, and were probably shot by gunners.

The prairie-chickens adapted themselves to

their new home in a satisfactory manner, and

became very tame. Their nests, well filled with

eggs, were found along the rail-fences of the fields

in the close vicinity of the marshes, for which

level tracts they seemed to have strong

attachment. They multiplied rapidly, and visited the

cattle-pens and barn-yards of the plantation.

The Maryland legislature passed a law to

protect all grouse introduced into the state; but a

new danger threatened these unfortunate birds.

A crew of New Jersey terrapin-hunters entered

Chincoteague Inlet, and searched the ditches and

little creeks of the salt-marshes for the

"diamondbacks." While thus engaged, the gentle grouse,

feeding quietly in the vicinity, attracted their

attention, and they at once bagged most of them.

A tenant on the estate informed me that he had

seen eighteen birds in a cornfield a few days

before -- the remnant of the stock.

The Ruffled Grouse (Bonasa umbellas), so

abundant in New Jersey, is not a resident of the

peninsula. Dr. Purnell's first experiment with

the Pinnated Grouse (Cupidonia cupido) has

encouraged others to bring the ruffled grouse to

the eastern shore of Maryland. That

unapproachable songster of the south, the American

Mocking-bird (Mimus polyglottus), is becoming

scarce in this region, from the inroads made by

bird-catchers who ship the young to northern

cities. This delightful chorister is only an

accidental visitor in the New England states.

Indeed as far south as Ocean County, New Jersey,

I saw but one of these birds, in a residence of

nine years on my cranberry plantations; though I

have heard that their nests are occasionally found

about Cape May, at the extreme southern end of

New Jersey.

My time being limited, I could enjoy the

doctor's hospitality for but one night. The next

morning the whole family, with tenants both

black and white, assisted me to embark. By

dusk I had crossed the division line of two states,

and had entered Virginia near the head of

Chincoteague Island, a locality of peculiar interest to

the student of American character. The

ebb-tide had left but little water around the rough pier

abreast of the town, and heaps of oyster-shells

rose from the mud flats and threatened the

safety of my canoe. I looked up through the

darkness to the light pier-head above me, and

called for assistance. Two men leaned over to

inquire, "What's the row now, stranger? " To

which I replied, "I wish to land a light boat on

your pier; and as it is made of paper, it should

be carefully handled." For a moment the

oystermen observed a silence, and then, without one

word of explanation, disappeared. I heard their

heavy boots tramping up the quay towards the

tavern. Soon a low murmur arose on the night

air, then hoarse shouts, and there came

thundering down the wharf an army of men and boys.

"Pass her up, stranger!" they cried. "Here,

give us your bow and starn painters, and jest

step overboard yourself, and we'll hist her up."

Some of the motley crew caught me by the

shoulders, others "histed away," and the canoe

and its captain were laid roughly upon the

ground.

There was a rush to feel of the paper shell.

Many were convinced that there was no humbug

about it; so, with a great shout, some of the men

tossed it upon their shoulders, while the rest

seized upon the miscellaneous cargo, and a rush

was made for the hotel, leaving me to follow at

discretion and alone. The procession burst open

the doors of the tavern, and poured through

the entrance to a court-yard, where they laid

the boat upon a long table under a shed, and

thought they had earned "drinks." This was the

spontaneous way in which the Chincoteague

people welcomed me. "If you don't drink, stranger,

up your way, what on airth keeps your buddies

and soulds together?" queried a tall oysterman.

A lady had kindly presented me with a peck of fine

apples that very morning; so, in lieu of "drinks,"

I distributed the fruit among them. They joked

and questioned me, and all were merry save one

bilious-looking individual, not dressed, like the

others, in an oysterman's garb, but wearing, to

use a term of the place, "store clothes."

After the crowd had settled in the bar-room,

at cards, &c., this doubting Thomas remained

beside the boat, carefully examining her. Soon

he was scraping her hull below the gunwale,

where the muddy water of the bay had left a

thin coat of sediment which was now dry. The

man's countenance lighted up as he pulled the

bartender aside and said, "Look ahere;

I tell you that boat looked as if she was made to

carry on a deck of a vessel, and to be a-shoved off

into the water at night jest abreast of a town to

make fools of folks, and git them to believe that

that fellow had a-rowed all the way ahere?

Now see, here is dust, dry dust on her hull.

She ahain't ben in the water mor'n ten minutes,

I sware," It required but a moment's

investigation of my Chincoteague audience to discover

that the dust was mud from the tide, and the

doubter brought down the ridicule of his more

discriminating neighbors upon him, and slunk

away amid their jeers.

Of all this community of watermen but one

could be found that night who had threaded the

interior watercourses as far as Cape Charles, and

he was the youngest of the lot. Taking out my

note-book, I jotted down his amusing directions.

"Look out for Cat Creek below Four Mouths,"

he said; "you'll catch it round there." "Yes,"

broke in several voices, "Cat Creek's an awful

place unless you run through on a full ebb-tide.

Oyster boats always has a time a-shoving through

Cat Creek," &c.

After the council with my Chincoteague

friends had ended, the route to be travelled the

next day was in my mental vision "as clear as

mud." The inhabitants of this island are not all

oystermen, for many find occupation and profit

in raising ponies upon the beach of Assateague,

where the wild, coarse grass furnishes them a

livelihood. These hardy little animals are called

"Marsh Tackies," and are found at intervals

along the beaches down to the sea-islands of the

Carolinas. They hold at Chincoteague an annual

fair, to which all the "pony-penners," as they

are called, bring their surplus animals to sell.

The average price is about ninety dollars for a

good beast, though some have sold for two

hundred and fifty dollars. All these horses are sold

in a semi-wild and unbroken state.

The following morning Mr. J. L. Caulk,

ex-collector of the oyster port, and about fifty

persons, escorted me to the landing, and sent me

away with a hearty "Good luck to ye."

It was three miles and three quarters to the

southern end of the island, which has an inlet

from the ocean upon each side of that end -- the

northern one being Assateague, the southern one

Chincoteague Inlet. Fortunately, I crossed the

latter in smooth water to Ballast Narrows in

the marshes, and soon reached Four Mouths,

where I found five mouths of thoroughfares, and

became perplexed, for had not the pilots of

Chincoteague called this interesting display of

mouths "Four Mouths"? I clung to the authority

of local knowledge, however, and was soon in a

labyrinth of creeks which ended in the marshes

near the beach.

Returning over the course, I once more faced

the four, or five mouths rather, and taking a new

departure by entering the next mouth to the one

I had so unsatisfactorily explored, soon entered

Rogue's Bay, across which could be seen the

entrance to Cat Creek, where I was to

experience the difficulties predicted by my Chincoteague

friends. Cat Creek furnished at half tide

sufficient water for my canoe, and not the

slightest difficulty was experienced in getting through

it. The oystermen had in their minds their own

sloop-rigged oyster-boats when they discoursed

to me about the hard passage of Cat Creek.

They had not considered the fact that my craft

drew only five inches of water.

Cat Creek took me quite down to the beach,

where, through an inlet, the dark-blue ocean,

sparkling in its white caps, came pleasantly into

view. Another inlet was to be crossed, and

again I was favored with smooth water. This

was Assawaman Inlet, which divided the beach

into two islands -- Wallops on the north, and

Assawaman on the south.

It seemed a singular fact that the two

Assawaman bays are forty-five miles to the north of an

inlet of the same name. In following the creeks

through the marshes between Assawaman Island

and the mainland, I crossed another shoal bay,

and another inlet opened in the beach, through

which the ocean was again seen. This last was

Gargathy Inlet. Before reaching it, as night was

coming on, I turned up a thoroughfare and rowed

some distance to the mainland, where I found

lodgings with a hospitable farmer, Mr. Martin R.

Kelly. At daybreak I crossed Gargathy Inlet.

It was now Saturday, November 28; and being

encouraged by the successful crossing of the

inlets in my tiny craft, I pushed on to try the less

inviting one at the end of Matomkin Island.

Fine weather favored me, and I pushed across

the strong tide that swept through this inlet

without shipping a sea. Assawaman and

Gargathy are constantly shifting their channels. At

times there will be six feet of water, and again

they will shoal to two feet. Matomkin, also, is

not to be relied on. Every northeaster will shift

a buoy placed in the channels of these three

inlets, so they are not buoyed.

Watchapreague Inlet, to the south of the three

last named, is less changeable in character, and

is also a much more dangerous inlet to cross in

rough weather. From Matoinkin Inlet the

interior thoroughfares were followed inside of Cedar

Island, when darkness forced me to seek shelter

with Captain William F. Burton, whose

comfortable home was on the shore of the mainland,

about five miles from Watchapreague Inlet.

Here I was kindly invited to spend Sunday.

Captain Burton told me much of interest, and

among other things mentioned the fact that

during one August, a few years before my visit, a

large lobster was taken on a fish-hook in

Watchapreague Inlet, and that a smaller one was

captured in the same manner during the summer

of 1874.

Monday was a gusty day. My canoe scraped

its keel upon the shoals as I dodged the broken

oyster reefs, called here "oyster rocks," while on

the passage down to Watchapreague Inlet. The

tide was very low, but the water deepened as

the beach was approached. A northeaster was

blowing freshly, and I was looking for a lee

under the beach, when suddenly the canoe shot

around a sandy point, and was tugging for life in

the rough waters of the inlet. The tide was

running in from the sea with the force of a rapid,

and the short, quick puffs of wind tossed the

waves wildly. It was useless to attempt to turn

the canoe back to the beach in such rough water,

but, intent on keeping the boat above the caps, I

gave her all the momentum that muscular power

could exert, as she was headed for the southern

point of the beach, across the dangerous inlet.

Though it was only half a mile across, the

passage of Watchapreague taxed me severely.

Waves washed over my canoe, but the gallant

little craft after each rebuff rose like a bird to

the surface of the water, answering the slightest

touch of my oar better than the best-trained

steed. After entering the south-side swash, the

wind struck me on the back, and seas came

tumbling over and around the boat, fairly forcing me

on to the beach. As we flew along, the

tumultuous waters made my head swim; so, to

prevent mental confusion, I kept my eyes only upon

the oars, which, strange to say, never betrayed

me into a false stroke.

As a heavy blast beat down the raging sea for

a moment, I looked over my shoulder and

beheld the low, sandy dunes of the southern shore

of the inlet close at hand, and with a severe jolt

the canoe grounded high on the strand. I

leaped out and drew my precious craft away

from the tide, breathing a prayer of thankfulness

for my escape from danger, and mentally vowing

that the canoe should cross all other treacherous

inlets in a fisherman's sloop. I went into camp

in a hollow of the beach, where the sand-hills

protected me from the piercing wind. All that

afternoon I watched from my burrow in the

ground the raging of the elements, and towards

evening was pleased to note a general subsidence

of wind and sea.

The canoe was again put into the water and

the thoroughfare followed southward for a mile

or two, when the short day ended, leaving me

beside a marshy island, which was fringed with

an oyster-bed of sharp-beaked bivalves.

Stepping overboard in the mud and water, the oars

and paddle were laid upon the shell reef to

protect the canoe, which was dragged on to the

marsh. It grew colder as the wind died out.

The marsh was wet, and no fire-wood could be

found. The canvas cover was removed, the cargo

was piled up on a platform of oars and shells to

secure it from the next tide, and then I slowly

and laboriously packed myself away in the narrow

shell for the night. The canvas deck-cover

was buttoned in its place, a rubber blanket

covered the cockpit, and I tried to sleep and dream

that I was not a sardine, nor securely confined in

some inhospitable vault. It was impossible to

turn over without unbuttoning one side of the

deck-cover and going through contortions that

would have done credit to a first-class acrobat.

For the first time in my life I found it necessary

to get out of bed in order to turn over in it.

At midnight, mallards (Anas boschas) came

close to the marsh. The soft whagh of the

drake, which is not in this species blessed with

the loud quack of the female bird, sufficiently

established the identity of the duck. Then

muskrats, and the oyster-eating coon, came

round, no doubt scenting my provisions. Brisk

raps from my knuckles on the inside shell of the

canoe astonished these animals and aroused their

curiosity, for they annoyed me until daybreak.

When I emerged from my narrow bed, the

frosty air struck my cheeks, and the cold, wet

marsh chilled my feet. It was the delay at

Watchapreague Inlet that had lodged me on this

inhospitable marsh; so, trying to exercise my

poor stock of patience, I completed my toilet,

shaking in my wet shoes. The icy water, into

which I stepped ankle-deep in order to launch

my canoe, reminded me that this wintry morning

was in fact the first day of December, and that

stormy Hatteras, south of which was to be found

a milder climate, was still a long way off.

The brisk row along Paramore's Island (called

Palmer's by the natives) to the wide, bay-like

entrance of Little Machipongo Inlet, restored

warmth to my benumbed limbs. This wide

doorway of the ocean permitted me to cross its

west portal in peace, for the day was calm.

From Little to Great Machipongo Inlet the

beach is called Hog Island. The inside

thoroughfare is bounded on the west by Rogue's

Island, out of the flats of which rose a solitary

house. At the southern end of Hog Island

there is a small store on a creek, and near the

beach a light-house, while a little inland is

located, within a forest of pines, a small

settlement.

At noon, Great Machipongo Inlet was crossed

without danger, and Cobb's Island was skirted

several miles to Sand Shoal Inlet, near which

the hotel of the three Cobb brothers rose

cheerfully out of the dreary waste of sands and

marshes. The father of the present proprietors

came to this island more than thirty years ago,

and took possession of this domain, which had

been thrown up by the action of the ocean's

waves. He refused an offer of one hundred

thousand dollars for the island. The locality is

one of the best on this coast for wild-fowl

shooting. Sand Shoal Inlet, at the southern end of

Cobb's Island, has a depth of twelve feet of

water on its bar at low tide.

In company with the regular row-boat ferry I

crossed, the next day, the broad bay to the

mainland eight miles distant, where the canoe was

put upon a cart and taken across the peninsula

five miles to Cherrystone, the only point near

Cape Charles at which a Norfolk steamer stopped

for passengers. It was fully forty miles across

Chesapeake Bay from Cherrystone Landing to

Norfolk, and it was imperative to make the

portage from this place instead of from Cape Charles,

which, though more than fifteen miles further

south, and nearer to my starting-point on the

other side, did not possess facilities for

transportation. The slow one-horse conveyance arrived

at Cherrystone half an hour after the steamer

N. P. Banks had left the landing, though I

heard that the kind-hearted captain, being told

I was coming, waited and whistled for me till

his patience was exhausted.

The only house at the head of the pier was

owned by Mr. J. P. Powers, and fortunately

offered hotel accommodations. Here I remained

until the next trip of the boat, December 4.

Arriving in Norfolk at dusk of the same day, I

stored my canoe in the warehouse of the Old

Dominion Steamship Company, and quietly

retired to a hotel which promised an early meal

in the morning, congratulating myself the while

that I had avoided the usual show of curiosity

tendered to canoeists at city piers, and above all

had escaped the inevitable reporter. Alas! my

thankfulness came too soon; for when about to

retire, my name was called, and a veritable

reporter from the Norfolk Landmark cut off

my retreat.

"Only a few words," he pleadingly

whispered. "I've been hunting for you all over the

city since seven o'clock, and it is near midnight

now."

He gently took my arm and politely furnished

me with a chair. Then placing his own directly

before me, he insinuatingly worked upon me

until he derived a knowledge of the log of the

Paper Canoe, when leaning back in his chair he

leisurely surveyed me and exclaimed:

"Mr. Bishop, you are a man of snap. We

like men of snap; we admire men of snap;

in fact, I may say we cotton to men of snap, and

I am proud to make your acquaintance. Now

if you will stop over a day we will have the

whole city out to see your boat."

This kind offer I firmly refused, and we were

about to part, when he said in a softly rebuking

manner:

"You thought, Mr. Bishop, you would give us

the slip -- did you not? I assure you that would

be quite impossible. Eternal Vigilance is our

motto. No, you could not escape us. Good

evening, sir, and the 'Landmark's' welcome to

you."

Six hours later, as I entered the restaurant of

the hotel with my eyes half open, a newsboy

bawled out in the darkness: "'Ere's the

Landmark.' Full account of the Paper Canoe," &c.

And before the sun was up I had read a column

and a half of "The Arrival of the Solitary

Voyager in Norfolk." So much for the zeal of Mr.

Perkins of the "Landmark," a worthy example

of American newspaper enterprise. Dreading

further attentions, I now prepared to beat a hasty

retreat from the city.

CHAPTER IX. FROM NORFOLK TO CAPE HATTERAS.

THE ELIZABETH RIVER. -- THE CANAL. -- NORTH LANDING RIVER.

-- CURRITUCK SOUND. -- ROANOKE ISLAND. -- VISIT TO BODY

ISLAND LIGHT-HOUSE. -- A ROMANCE OF HISTORY. -- PAMPLICO

SOUND. -- THE PAPER CANOE ARRIVES AT CAPE HATTERAS.

On Saturday morning, December 5, I left the

pier of the Old Dominion Steamship

Company, at Norfolk, Virginia, and, rowing across the

water towards Portsmouth, commenced

ascending Elizabeth River, which is here wide and

affected by tidal change. The old navy yard,

with its dismantled hulks lying at anchor in the

stream, occupies both banks of the river. About

six miles from Norfolk the entrance to the

Dismal Swamp Canal is reached, on the left bank

of the river. This old canal runs through the

Great Dismal Swamp, and affords passage for

steamers and light-draught vessels to Elizabeth

City, on the Pasquotank River, which empties

into Albemarle Sound to the southward. The

great cypress and juniper timber is penetrated by

this canal, and schooners are towed into the

swamp to landings where their cargoes are

delivered.

In the interior of the Dismal Swamp is

Drummond's Lake, named after its discoverer. It is

seven miles long by five miles wide, and is the

feeder of the canal. A branch canal connects it

with the main canal; and small vessels may

traverse the lake in search of timber and shingles.

Voyagers tell me that during heavy gales of

wind a terrible sea is set in motion upon this

shoal sheet of water, making it dangerous to

navigate. Bears are found in the fastnesses of

the swamp. The Dismal Swamp Canal was dug

in the old days of the wheelbarrow and spade.

The Albemarle and Chesapeake Canal, the

entrance to which is sixteen miles from Norfolk,

on the right or east bank of the Elizabeth River,

and generally known as the "new canal," was

commenced about the year 1856, and finished in

1859. It is eight miles and a half in length,

and connects the Elizabeth and North Landing

rivers. This canal was dug by dredging-machines.

It is kept in a much better state for

navigation, so far as the depth of water is

concerned, than the old canal, which from

inattention is gradually shoaling in places; consequently

the regular steam-packets which ply between

Elizabeth City and Norfolk, as well as steamers

whose destinations are further north, have given

up the use of the Dismal Swamp Canal, and

now go round through Albemarle Sound up the

North River, thence by a six-mile cut into

Currituck Sound, up North Landing River, and

through the new canal to the Elizabeth River

and into Chesapeake Bay. The shores of the

Elizabeth are low and are fringed by sedgy

marshes, while forests of second-growth pine

present a green background to the eye. A few

miles above Norfolk the cultivation of land

ceases, and the canoeist traverses a wilderness.

About noon I arrived at the locks of the

Albemarle and Chesapeake Canal. The telegraph

operator greeted me with the news that the

company's agent in Norfolk had telegraphed to the

lock-master to pass the paper canoe through with

the freedom of the canal -- the first honor of the

kind that had fallen to my lot. The tide rises

and falls at the locks in the river about three feet

and a half. When I passed through, the

difference in the level between the ends of the locks

did not reach two feet. The old lock-master

urged me to give up the journey at once, as I

never could "get through the Sounds with that

little boat." When I told him I was on my

second thousand miles of canoe navigation since

leaving Quebec, he drew a long breath and

gave a low groan.

When once through the canal-gates, you are

in a heavy cypress swamp. The dredgings

thrown upon the banks have raised the edge of

the swamp to seven feet above the water. Little

pines grow along these shores, and among them

the small birds, now on their southern migrations,

sported and sang. Whenever a steamer or

tugboat passed me, it crowded the canoe close to

the bank; but these vessels travel along the

canal at so slow a rate, that no trouble is

experienced by the canoeist from the disturbance

caused by their revolving screws. Freedmen,

poling flats loaded with shingles or frame stuff,

roared out their merry songs as they passed.

The canal entered the North Landing River

without any lockage; just beyond was North

Landing, from which the river takes its name.

A store and evidences of a settlement meet the

eye at a little distance. The river is tortuous,

and soon leaves the swamp behind. The pine

forest is succeeded by marshes on both sides of

the slow-flowing current.

Three miles from North Landing a single

miniature house is seen; then for nearly five

miles along the river not a trace of the presence

of man is to be met, until Pungo Ferry and

Landing loom up out of the low marshes on the east

side of the river. This ferry, with a store

three-quarters of a mile from the landing, and a farm

of nearly two hundred acres, is the property of

Mr. Charles N. Dudley, a southern gentleman,

who offers every inducement in his power to

northern men to settle in his vicinity. Many of

the property-holders in the uplands are willing

to sell portions of their estates to induce

northern men to come among them.

It was almost dark when I reached the

storehouse at Pungo Ferry; and as Sunday is a sacred

day with me, I determined to camp there until

Monday. A deformed negro held a lease of the

ferry, and pulled a flat back and forth across

the river by means of a chain and windlass. He

was very civil, and placed his quarters at my

disposal until I should be ready to start southward

to Currituck Sound. We lifted the canoe and

pushed it through an open window into the little

store-room, where it rested upon an unoccupied

counter. The negro went up to the loft above,

and threw down two large bundles of flags for a

bed, upon which I spread my blankets. An old

stove in a corner was soon aglow with burning

light wood. While I was cooking my supper,

the little propeller Cygnet, which runs between

Norfolk and Van Slyck's Landing, at Currituck

Narrows, touched at Pungo Ferry, and put off

an old woman who had been on a two years'

visit to her relatives. She kindly accosted the

dwarfed black with, "Charles, have you got a

match for my pipe?"

"Yes, missus," civilly responded the negro,

handing her a light.

"Well, this is good!" soliloquized the ancient

dame, as she seated herself on a box and puffed

away at the short-stemmed pipe. Ah, good

indeed to get away from city folks, with their

stuck-up manners and queer ways, a-fault-finding

when you stick your knife in your mouth in

place of your fork, and a-feeding you on China

tea in place of dear old yaupon. Charles, you

can't reckon how I longs to get a cup of good

yaupon."

As the reader is about entering a country

where the laboring classes draw largely upon

nature for their supply of "the cup that cheers

but not inebriates," I will describe he shrub

which produces it.

This substitute for the tea of China is a holly

(ilex), and is called by the natives "yaupon"

(I. cassine, Linn.). It is a handsome shrub,

growing a few feet in height, with alternate,

perennial, shining leaves, and bearing small scarlet

berries. It is found in the vicinity of salt water,

in the light soils of Virginia and the Carolinas.

The leaves and twigs are dried by the women,

and when ready for market are sold at one dollar

per bushel. It is not to be compared in

excellence with the tea of China, nor does it approach

in taste or good qualities the well-known

yerbamate, another species of holly, which is found

in Paraguay, and is the common drink of the

people of South America.

The old woman having gone on her way, and

we being again alone in the rude little shanty,

the good-natured freedman told me his history,

ending with, -

"O that was a glorious day for me,

When Massa Lincoln set me free."

He had too much ambition, he said, deformed as

he was, to be supported as a pauper by the

public. "I can make just about twelve dollars a

month by dis here ferry," he exclaimed. "I

don't want for nuffin'; I'se got no wife -- no

woman will hab me. I want to support myself

and live an honest man."

About seven o'clock he left me to waddle up

the road nearly a mile to a little house.

"I an' another cullo'd man live in

partnership," he said. He could not account for the

fact that I had no fear of sleeping alone in the

shanty on the marshes. He went home for the

company of his partner, as he "didn't like to

sleep alone noways."

Though the cold wind entered through broken

window-lights and under the rudely constructed

door, I slept comfortably until morning. Before

Charles had returned, my breakfast was cooked

and eaten.

With the sunshine of the morning came a

new visitor. I had made the acquaintance of

the late slave; now I received a call from the

late master. My visitor was a pleasant,

gentlemanly personage, the owner of the surrounding

acres. His large white house could be seen

from the landing, a quarter of a mile up the

road.

"I learned that a stranger from the north was

camped here, and was expecting that he would

come up and take breakfast with me," was his

kindly way of introducing himself.

I told him I was comfortably established in

dry quarters, and did not feel justified in

forcing myself upon his hospitality while I had so

many good things of this life in my

provision-basket.

Mr. Dudley would take no excuse, but

conducted me to his house, where I remained that

day, attending the religious services in a little

church in the vicinity. My kind host introduced

me to his neighbors, several of whom returned

with us to dinner. I found the people about

Pungo Ferry, like those I had met along the

sounds of the eastern shore of Maryland and

Virginia, very piously inclined, -- the same

kindhearted, hospitable people.

My host entertained me the next day, which

was rainy, with his life in the Confederate army,

in which he served as a lieutenant. He was a

prisoner at Johnson's Island for twenty-two

months. He bore no malice towards northern

men who came south to join with the natives in

working for the true interests of the country.

The people of the south had become weary of

political sufferings inflicted by a floating

population from the north; they needed actual settlers,

not politicians. This sentiment I found

everywhere expressed. On Tuesday I bade farewell

to my new friends, and rowed down the North

Landing River towards Currituck Sound.

The North Carolina line is only a few miles

south of the ferry. The river enters the head

of the sound six or eight miles below Pungo

Ferry. A stiff northerly breeze was blowing,

and as the river widened, on reaching the head

of the sound, to a mile or more, and bays were

to be crossed from point to point, it required

the exercise of considerable patience and

muscular exertion to keep the sea from boarding

the little craft amidship. As I was endeavoring

to weather a point, the swivel of one of the

outriggers parted at its junction with the row-lock,

and it became necessary to get under the south

point of the marshes for shelter.

The lee side offered a smooth bay. It was

but a few minutes' work to unload and haul the

canoe into the tall rushes, which afforded ample

protection against the cold wind. It was three

hours before the wind went down, when the

canoe was launched, and, propelled by the double

paddle, (always kept in reserve against accidents

to oars and row-locks,) I continued over the

waters of Currituck Sound.

Swans could now be seen in flocks of twenties

and fifties. They were exceedingly wary, not

permitting the canoe to approach within rifle

range. Clouds of ducks, and some Canada

geese, as well as brant, kept up a continuous

flutter as they rose from the surface of the water.

Away to the southeast extended the glimmering

bosom of the sound, with a few islands relieving

its monotony. The three or four houses and two

small storehouses at the landing of Currituck

Court House, which, with the brick court-house,

comprise the whole village, are situated on the

west bank; and opposite, eight miles to the

eastward, is the narrow beach island that serves as

a barrier to the ingress of the ocean.

At sunset I started the last flock of white

swans, and grounded in the shoal waters at the

landing. There is no regular hotel here, but a

kind lady, Mrs. Simmons, accommodates the

necessities of the occasional traveller. The

canoe was soon locked up in the landing-house.

Fortunately a blacksmith was found outside the

village, who promised to repair the broken

rowlock early upon the following morning. Before

a pleasant wood fire giving out its heat from a

grand old fireplace, with an agreeable visitor,

-- the physician of the place, the tediousness of

the three-hours' camp on the marshes was soon

forgotten, while the country and its resources

were fully discussed until a late hour.

Dr. Baxter had experimented in grape culture,

and gave me many interesting details in regard

to the native wine. In 1714, Lawson described

six varieties of native grapes found in North

Carolina. Our three finest varieties of native

grapes were taken from North Carolina. They

are the Scuppernong, the Catawba, and the

Isabella. The Scuppernong was found upon the

banks of the stream bearing that name, the

mouth of which is near the eastern end

of Albemarle Sound. The Catawba was originally

obtained on the Catawba River, near its head-waters

in Buncombe County. The Long Island stock

of the Isabella grape was brought to New York

by Mrs. Isabella Gibbs: hence the derivation of

the name.

Of the six varieties of North Carolina grapes,

five were found in Tyrrel County by Amadas

and Barlow. Tradition relates that these

travellers carried one small vine to Roanoke Island,

which still lives and covers an immense area of

ground. There are five varieties of the grape

growing wild on the shores of Albemarle Sound,

all of which are called Scuppernong, -- the

legitimate Scuppernong being a white grape, sweet

and large, and producing a wine said to resemble

somewhat in its luscious flavor the Malmsey

made on Mount Ida, in Candia.

The repairing of the outrigger detained me

until nearly noon of the next day, when the

canoe was got under way; but upon rowing off

the mouth of Coanjock Bay, only four miles from

Currituck Court House, a strong tempest arose

from the south, and observing an old

gentleman standing upon Bell Island Point, near his

cottage, beckoning me to come ashore, I obeyed,

and took refuge with my new acquaintance,

Captain Peter L. Tatum, proprietor of Bell Island.

"The war has left us without servants," said

the captain, as he presented me to his wife, "so

we make the best of it, and if you will accept

our hospitality we will make you comfortable."

Captain Tatum drew my attention to the flocks

of swans which dotted the waters in the offing,

and said: "It is hard work to get hold of a swan,

though they are a large bird, and abundant in

Currituck Sound. You must use a good rifle

to bring one down. After a strong norther has

been blowing, and the birds have worked well

into the bight of the bay, near Goose Castle Point,

if the wind shifts to the south suddenly, gunners

approach from the outside, and the birds

becoming cramped in the cove are shot as they rise

against the wind."

More than forty years ago old Currituck Inlet

closed, and the oysters on the natural beds, which

extended up North Landing River to Green

Point, were killed by the freshening of the

water. Now winds influence the tides which

enter at Oregon Inlet, about fifty-five miles

south of the Court House. The difference

between the highest and lowest tide at Currituck

Court House is three feet. The sound is filled

with sandy shoals, with here and there spots of

mud. The shells of the defunct oysters are

everywhere found mixed with the debris of the

bottom of the sound. This is a favorite locality

with northern sportsmen. The best "gunning

points," as is the case in Chesapeake Bay, are

owned by private parties, and cannot be used

by the public.

Thursday, the 10th of December, was cold,

and proved as tempestuous as the previous day;

but the wind had changed to the north, and I

embarked amid a swashy beam-sea, with the

hope of reaching Van Slyck's Landing at

Currituck Narrows. The norther, however, proved

too much for my safety. My course would be

easterly until I had passed the mouth of

Coanjock Bay and Goose Castle Point, then following

the trend of the west shore southerly down the

sound; but the wind raised such a rough sea

that I was obliged to turn southward into

Coanjock Bay, ascend it five miles, and seek for a

crossing-place overland to the sound again,

which I found near the entrance of the

lockless canal that is used by steamers to pass from

North Landing River to North River and

Albemarle Sound.

A fire was soon built, upon which I placed

long, light poles taken from the drift-wood, and

burning them in pieces of the required lengths,

(no axe being at hand,) I was prepared to make

the portage. Laying these pieces of wood on

the ground, I drew my canoe over them to the

shore of Currituck Sound; then, by making up

back-loads of the cargo, transported everything

to the point of embarkation, which was just

inside the mouth of a little creek.

The row to Currituck Narrows was not

difficult, as the north wind was a fair one. Along

the west shore of the sound there were many

little houses upon the high banks, and a

windmill supplied the place of a water-power for

grinding corn. The improvements made by Mr.

Van Slyck, of New York, were in cheering

contrast to what had been seen since leaving

Norfolk. Here a comfortable hotel welcomes the

northern sportsmen, few of whom, for lack of

accommodations and travelling conveniences, go

much south of this locality, in this state, to shoot

wild-fowl. Currituck Sound has an average

width of four miles. Its length is about

thirty-five miles. At the Narrows, a group of marshy

islands divides it into two sections, the northern

one being the longest.

The keen, cold air of the next day made

rowing a pleasant exercise. After passing through

the tortuous channel, I should have crossed to the

beach and followed it; but this part of the bay

is very shallow, and deeper water was found on

the west side. It was an enjoyable morning,

for gunners were passed, secreted behind their

"blinds," or pens, of pine brush, which looked like

little groves of conifera growing out of the shoal

water. Geese were honking and ducks were

quacking, while the deep booming of guns was

heard every few minutes. Decoy-birds were

anchored in many places near the marshes.

Every sportsman gave me a cheering word as

the canoe glided over the smooth water, while

here and there the violet-backed swallow

darted about over the marshes as though it were

summer.

When opposite Dew's Quarter Island, several

men hailed me from a newly constructed shanty.

When the oldest man in the company, who had

never seen a shell like the paper canoe, had

examined it, he shook his head ominously; and

when I told him Nag's Head must be reached

that day, he grew excited, exclaiming, "Then be

off now! now! Git across the bay under Bald

Beach as soon as ye can, and hug the shore, hug

it well clean down to Collington's, and git across

the sound afore the wind rises. Sich a boat as

that aren't fit for these here waters."

Taking this kindly meant advice, I pulled to

the east side, where there was now a good depth

of water for the canoe. On this high beach the

hills were well covered with yellow pines, many

of which were noble old trees. On a narrow

point of the shore was the comfortable house of

Hodges Gallup, the Baptist minister, a generous

old gentleman, who seemed to be loved by all

the watermen along the sound. He was

described as being "full of fun and hospitality."

His domain extended for several miles along

the beach, and, with deer quietly browsing in his

grand old woods, formed a pretty picture.

The beach shore now became more thickly

settled, while out in the water, a few rods from

each little house, arose the duck-blind, with the

gunner and his boat inside, anxiously watching

for birds, while their decoys floated quietly on

the surface of the water. A few miles below

Mr. Gallup's estate the canoe entered upon the

broad waters of Albemarle Sound, and at dusk I

approached Roanoke Island. The large

buildings of the hotels of Nag's Head on the beach

rose up as boldly to the eye as a fortification.

The little sound between Roanoke Island and

the beach was traversed at dusk as far as the first

long pier of Nag's head, upon which with great

difficulty I landed, and was soon joined by the

keeper of the now deserted summer watering

place, Mr. C. D. Rutter, who helped me to carry

my property into a room of the old hotel.

Nag's Head Beach is a most desolate locality,

with its high sand-hills, composed of fine sand,

the forms of which are constantly changing with

the action of the dry, hard, varying winds. A

new and very large hotel was located south of

the first one, and was inhabited by the family of

Captain Jasper Toler, who furnished me with

lodgings. A few fishermen have their homes on

this dreary beach, but the village, with its one

store, is a forlorn place.

The bright flashes of Body Island Light, ten

miles distant, on the north side of Oregon Inlet,

showed me my next abiding-place.

The beach from Nag's Head to Oregon Inlet

is destitute of trees, and the wind sweeps across

it, from the ocean to the sound, with great

violence, forcing the shallow waters to retire, and

leaving the bottom dry as far out as three miles.

The next day was very windy, and the long,

finger-like, sandy shoals, which extended one or

two miles out into the sound, were covered with

only from three to eight inches of water. I could

not hug the beach for protection, but was forced

to keep far out in the sound. Frequently it

became necessary to get overboard and wade,

pushing my boat before me. Then a deep channel

between the shoals would be crossed; so, by

walking and rowing in Roanoke Sound, with

the wind blowing the water over the canoe and

drenching its captain, the roundabout twelve

miles' passage to Oregon Inlet was at last

accomplished, and a most trying one it was.

Body Island Lighthouse was erected in 1872,

on the north side of Oregon Inlet, to take the

place of the old tower on the south shore. It is

in latitude 35 deg 48', and longitude 75 deg 33'.

Captain William F. Hatzel, a loyal North Carolinian,

is the principal keeper, and a most efficient one

he is.

The temperature was falling rapidly when I

crawled into the high rushes of the wet marsh

near the light-house to seek shelter from the

strong wind that was blowing. As this treeless

beach was destitute of fire-wood, or natural

shelter of any kind, necessity compelled me to have

recourse to other means for procuring them. I

carried in my pocket a talisman which must

open any light-keeper's door; from Maine to the

Rio Grande, from Southern California to Alaska,

even to the vicinity of the Arctic Circle, the

Lighthouse Establishment of the United States has

planted a tower or erected a light. While

shivering in wet clothes on this desolate beach, most

thankfully did I remember that kind and thoughtful

friend, who through his potent influence had

supplied me with this open sesame to

lightkeepers.

There resides in Washington, when not

engaged elsewhere in the important duties of the

Commission of Fisheries, a genial gentleman, an

ardent naturalist, a great scientist. To him the

young naturalists of America turn for information

and advice, and to the humblest applicant

Professor Spencer F. Baird never turns a deaf ear.

How this distinguished author can attend to so

many and such varied duties with his laborious

investigations, and can so successfully keep up a

large correspondence with perhaps one thousand

scientific associations of nearly every nation of

the universe, is a difficult thing to imagine; but

the popular and much beloved Assistant

Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution, seemingly

ubiquitous in his busy life, does all this and much

more. America may well feel proud of this man

of noble nature, shedding light and truth

wheresoever he moves, encouraging alike old and

young with his kindly sympathy; -- now taking

his precious moments to answer with his own

busy hand the question in the letter of some boy

naturalist about beasts, birds, reptiles, or fishes,

with which epistles his desk is always covered;

now stimulating to further effort the old man of

science as he struggles with the cares of this

world, striving, sometimes vainly, save for this

ever ready aid, to work out patiently theories

which are soon to blaze forth as substantial facts.

The young generation of naturalists, which is

soon to fill the place of their predecessors, have

in this man the type of all they need ever strive

to attain. How many, alas, will fall far short

of it!

Since boyhood the counsels of this friend had

guided me on many a journey of exploration.

He had not deserted me even in this experiment,

which my friends called "your wildest and most

foolish undertaking." He had obtained from the

Light House Board a general letter to the

lightkeepers of the United States, signed by the

naval secretary, Mr. Walker, in which the

keepers were authorized to grant me shelter, &c.,

when necessary. I did not have occasion to use

this letter more than twice during my journey.

Having secreted my canoe in the coarse grass

of the lowland, I trudged, with my letter in hand,

over the sands to the house of the light-keeper,

Captain Hatzel, who received me cordially; and

after recording in his log-book the circumstances

and date of my arrival, conducted me into a

comfortable room, which was warmed by a

cheerful fire, and lighted up by the smiles of his

most orderly wife. Everything showed

discipline and neatness, both in the house and the

light-tower. The whitest of cloths was spread

upon the table, and covered with a well-cooked

meal; then the father, mother, and two sons,

with the stranger within their gates, thanked the

Giver of good gifts for his mercies.

Joining the night-watch of the chief

lightkeeper, I also joined in the good man's

enthusiasm for his wonderful "fixed white light," the

bright beams of which poured out upon the

surrounding waters a flood if brilliancy, gladdening

hearts far out at sea, even though twenty miles

away, and plainly saying, "This is Body Island

Beach: keep off!" How grand it was to walk

out on this gallery in the sky! Looking

eastward, a limitless expanse of ocean; gazing

westward, the waters of the great sound, the shores

of which were low marshes miles away. Below

me could be heard the soft cackle of the

snow-goose (Anser hyperboreus), which had left its

nesting-place on the barren grounds of arctic

America, and was now feeding contentedly in its

winter home in the shallow salt-ponds; which the

gentle shur-r-r- of the waves softly broke on

the strand. Above, the star-lit heavens, whose

tender beauty seemed almost within my grasp.

Perched thus upon a single shaft, on a narrow

strip of sand far out in the great water, the many

thoughts born of solitude crowded my mind,

when my reverie was abruptly broken by an

exclamation from Captain Hatzel, who threw

open the door, and exclaimed, with beaming

eyes peering into the darkness as he spoke, "I

see it! Yes, it is! Hatteras Light, thirty-five

miles away. This night, December 13th, is the

first time I have caught its flash. Tell it to the

Hatteras keeper when you visit the cape."

From Captain Hatzel I gleaned some facts of

deep interest in regard to the inhabitants of the

sound. Some of them, he told me, had Indian

blood in their veins; and to prove the truth of his

assertion he handed me a well-worn copy of the

"History of North Carolina," by Dr. Francis L.

Hawks, D. D. From this I obtained facts which

might serve for the intricate mazes of a romance.

It had been a pet scheme with Sir Walter

Raleigh to colonize the coast of North Carolina,

then known as Virginia, and though several

expeditions had been sent out for that object, each

had failed of successful issue. One of these

expeditions sent by Sir Walter to Roanoke

Island consisted of one hundred and twenty-one

persons, of whom seventeen were women and

six children. Of all these souls only two men

returned to the old country, the fate of the

remainder being unknown, and shrouded in the

gloom which always attends mystery. England

did not, however, leave her children to perish on

a barren shore in the new land without at least an

effort to succor them.

On March 20, in the year 1590, there sailed

from Plymouth three ships, the Hopewell, John

Evangelist, and Little John, taking in tow two

shallops which were afterwards lost at sea. In

these days the largest vessels of a fleet did not

exceed one hundred to one hundred and forty

tons burden. This expedition was under the

charge of Admiral John White, governor of the

colony of Sir Walter Raleigh on Roanoke Island,

and who had left the feeble band on the island

in 1587. In thirty-six days and eight hours these

small vessels arrived off "Hatorask" -- Hatteras

Beach. The fleet dropped anchor three leagues

off the beach, and sent a well-manned boat

through an inlet to Pamplico Sound.

There existed in those days passages from the

ocean through the beaches into the sounds,

which have since been filled up by the action

of the sea. Old Roanoke Inlet, now closed,

which was about four miles north of the

modern Oregon Inlet, is supposed to be the one used

by Sir Walter Raleigh's expeditions. It is only

four miles from the site of this closed inlet to

Shallowbag Bay, on Roanoke Island. At the

southern entrance of the bay, near Ballast Point,

some vessel evidently grounded and threw

overboard her stone ballast; hence the name of the

point. Captain Hatzel has examined this stone,

and gives his opinion, as an old pilot, that it is

foreign in character. He never met with similar

stones, and believes that this ballast was

deposited at Shallowbag Bay by some of the vessels

of Sir Walter's expeditions.

As the boat's crew above mentioned rowed

northward to Roanoke Island -- made famous

two hundred and seventy-two years later by

the National and Confederate struggles -- they

sounded their trumpets and sang familiar songs,

which they hoped might be borne to their

countrymen on the shore; but the marshes and

upland wilderness returned no answering voice.

At daybreak the explorers landed upon

Roanoke Island, which is twelve miles long by two

and a half wide, and found the spot where

Admiral White had left the colony in 1587.

Eagerly searching for any tokens of the lost ones, they

soon traced in the light soil of the island the

imprint of the moccasin of the savage, but

looked in vain for any footprint of civilized

man. What had become of their countrymen?

At last some one spied a conspicuous tree,

far up on a sandy bank, blazed and carved.

There were but three letters cut upon it, C.R.O.,

but these simple symbols possessed a world of

meaning. Three years before, when the sad

farewells were being spoken, and the ships were

ready to set sail for England, this feeble band, left

to struggle in the wilds of the new land with sad

forebodings of their possible fate, had agreed

upon a signal, and had promised Admiral White

that if driven to starvation upon the island, they

would plant their colony fifty miles inland, near

a tribe of friendly Indians. Indeed, before the

ships sailed for England, they were making

preparations for this move. Admiral White requested

them to carve upon a tree the name of the

locality to which they should remove, and if distress

had overtaken them they were to add a cross

over the lettering. Anxiously gathering round

this interesting relic of the lost Englishmen, the

rude chirography was eagerly scanned, but no

vestige of a cross was found.

Much relieved in mind, the little company

continued their investigations, when, farther on,

almost in their very pathway, there rose a noble

tree, pointing its top heavenward, as though to

remind them in whose care their lost ones had

been. Approaching this giant, who had stood

a silent sentinel through winter storms and

summer skies, they found he bore upon his body

a message for them. Stripped of its bark, five

feet upward from the ground there appeared

upon the bare surface in bold lettering the word

so full of hope -- Croatan; and now also, as in

the last case, without the graven cross. Cheered

by these signs, and believing that the lost

colonists had carried out their early intentions, and

were now located among the friendly tribe of

Croatans, wheresoever their country might be,

the boat's company decided to go at once to the

ships, and return the next day in search of the

lost colony.

One of the ships, in moving its position from

the unprotected anchorage-ground, parted its

cable and left an anchor on the bottom -- the

second that had been lost. The wind drove the

ships towards the beach, when a third anchor

was lowered; but it held the little fleet so

close in to the breakers, that the sailors were

forced to slip their cable and work into a

channel-way, where, in deeper water, they held their

ground.

In debating the propriety of holding on and

attempting to wear out the gale, the scarcity of

their provisions, and the possession of but one

cask of water, and only one anchor for the fleet

to ride at, decided them to go southward in quest

of some favorable landing, where water could be

found. The council held out the hope of

capturing Spanish vessels in the vicinity of the

West Indies; and it was agreed that, if

successful they should return, richly laden with spoil,

to seek their exiled countrymen. One of these

vessels returned to England, while the Admiral

laid his course for Trinidad; and this was the

last attempt made to find the colonists.

More than a century after Admiral White had

abandoned his colony, Lawson, in writing about

the Hatteras Indians, says: "They said that

several of their ancestors were white people, and

could talk in a book as we do; the truth of

which is confirmed by grey eyes being frequently

found among them, and no others. They value

themselves extremely for their affinity to the

English, and are ready to do them all friendly

offices. It is probable that the settlement

miscarried for want of supplies from England, or

through the treachery of the natives; for we

may reasonably suppose that the English were

forced to cohabit with them for relief and

conversation, and that in process of time they

conformed themselves to the manners of their

Indian relations."

Dr. Hawks thinks, "that, driven by starvation,

such as survived the famine were merged into

the tribes of friendly Indians at Croatan, and,

alas! lost ere long every vestige of Christianity

and civilization; and those who came to shed

light on the darkness of paganism, in the

mysterious providence of God ended by relapsing

themselves into the heathenism they came to

remove. It is a sad picture of poor human

nature."

It needed not the fierce gusts of wind that

howled about the tall tower, causing it to vibrate

until water would be spilled out of a pail resting

upon the floor of the lantern, blowing one day

from one quarter of the compass, and changing

the next to another, to warn me that I was near

the Cape of Storms.

Refusing to continue longer with my new

friends, the canoe was put into the water on the

16th, and Captain Hatzel's two sons proceeded

in advance with a strong boat to break a

channelway through the thin ice which had formed in

the quiet coves. We were soon out in the sound,

where the boys left me, and I rowed out of the

southern end of Roanoke and entered upon the

wide area of Pamplico Sound. To avoid shoals,

it being calm, I kept about three miles from the

beach in three feet of water, until beyond Duck

Island, when the trees on Roanoke Island slowly

sank below the horizon; then gradually drawing

in to the beach, the two clumps of trees of north

and south Chicamicomio came into view. A

life-saving station had recently been erected

north of the first grove, and there is another

fourteen miles further south. The two

Chicamicomio settlements of scattered houses are

each nearly a mile in length, and are separated

by a high, bald sand-beach of about the same

length, which was once heavily wooded; but the

wind has blown the sand into the forest and

destroyed it. A wind-mill in each village raised

its weird arms to the breeze.

Three miles further down is Kitty Midget's

Hammock, where a few red cedars and some

remains of live-oaks tell of the extensive forest

that once covered the beach. Here Captain

Abraham Hooper lives, and occupies himself in

fishing with nets in the ocean for blue-fish, which

are salted down and sent to the inland towns for

a market. I had drawn my boat into the sedge

to secure a night's shelter, when the old captain

on his rounds captured me. The change from a

bed in the damp sedge to the inside seat of the

largest fireplace I had ever beheld, was indeed

a pleasant one. Its inviting front covered almost

one side of the room. While the fire flashed up

the wide chimney, I sat inside the fireplace with

the three children of my host, and enjoyed the

genial glow which arose from the fragments of

the wreck of a vessel which had pounded

herself to death upon the strand near Kitty Midget's

Hammock. How curiously those white-haired

children watched the man who had come so far

in a paper boat! "Why did not the paper boat

soak to pieces?" they asked. Each explanation

seemed but to puzzle them the more; and I

found myself in much the same condition of

mind when trying to make some discoveries

concerning Kitty Midget. She must, however,

have lived somewhere on Clark's Beach long

before the present proprietor was born. We

spent the next day fishing with nets in the surf

for blue-fish, it being about the last day of

their stay in that vicinity. They go south as

far as Cape Hatteras, and then disappear in deep

water; while the great flocks of gulls, that

accompany them to gather the remnants of fish

they scatter in their savage meals, rise in the air

and fly rapidly away in search of other dainties.

On Thursday I set out for Cape Hatteras.

The old sailor's song, that -

"Hatteras has a blow in store

For those who pass her howling door,"

has far more truth than poetry in it. Before

proceeding far the wind blew a tempest, when a

young fisherman in his sailboat bore down upon

me, and begged me to come on board. We

attempted to tow the canoe astern, but she filled

with water, which obliged us to take her on

board. As we flew along before the wind,

dashing over the shoals with mad-cap temerity,

I discovered that my new acquaintance, Burnett,

was a most daring as well as reckless sailor.

He told me how he had capsized his father's

schooner by carrying sail too long. "This 'ere

slow way of doing things" he detested. His

recital was characteristic of the man.

"You see, sir, we was bound for Newbern

up the Neuse River, and as we were well into

the sound with all sail set, and travelling along

lively, daddy says, 'Lorenzo, I reckon a little

yaupon wouldn't hurt me, so I'll go below and

start a firs under the kittle.' Do as you likes,

daddy,' sez I. So down below he goes, and I

takes command of the schooner. A big black

squall soon come over Cape Hatteras from the

Gulf Stream, and it did look like a screecher.

Now, I thought, old woman, I'll make your sides

ache; so I pinted her at it, and afore I could luff

her up in the wind, the squall kreened her on to

her beam-ends. You'd a laughed to have split

yourself, mister, if you could have seen daddy

a-crawling out of the companion-way while the

water was a-running down stairs like a crick.

Says he, ruther hurriedly, 'Sonny, what's up?'

It isn't what's up, daddy; but what's down,'

sez I; it sort o' looks as if we had capsized.'

Sure 'nuff,' answered dad, as the ballast shifted

and the schooner rolled over keel uppermost.

We floundered about like porpoises, but managed

to get astride her backbone, when dad looked

kind of scornfully at me, and burst out with,

'Sonny, do you call yourself a keerful sailor?'

'Keerful enough, dad,' sez I, 'for a smart one.

It's more credit to a man to drive his vessel like

a sailor, than to be crawling and bobbing along

like a diamond-backed terrapin.' Now, stranger,

if you'll believe me, that keerful old father of

mine would never let me take the helum again,

so I sticks to my aunt at the cape."

I found that the boat in which we were sailing

was a dug-out, made from two immense cypress

logs. Larger boats than this are made of three

logs, and smaller ones are dug out of one.

Burnett told me that frame boats were so easily

pounded to pieces on the shoals, that dug-outs

were preferred -- being very durable. We soon

passed the hamlet of North Kinnakeet, then

Scarsborough with its low houses, then South

Kinnakeet with its two wind-mills, and after

these arose a sterile, bald beach with Hatteras

light-tower piercing the sky, and west of it

Hatteras woods and marshes. We approached the

low shore and ascended a little creek, where

we left our boats, and repaired to the cottage

of Burnett's aunt.

After the barren shores I had passed, this

little house, imbedded in living green, was like

a bright star in a dark night. It was hidden

away in a heavy thicket of live-oaks and cedars,

and surrounded by yaupons, the bright red

berries of which glistened against the light green

leaves. An old woman stood in the doorway

with a kindly greeting for her "wild boy,"

rejoicing the while that he had "got back to his

old aunty once more."

"Yes, aunty," said my friend Lorenzo, "I am

back again like a bad penny, but not

empty-handed; for as soon as our season's catch of

blue-fish is sold, old aunty will have sixty or

seventy dollars."

"He has a good heart, if he is so head-strong,"

whispered the motherly woman, as she wiped a

tear from her eyes, and gazed with pride upon

the manly-looking young fellow, and -- invited

us in to tea -- YAUPON.

CHAPTER X. FROM CAPE HATTERAS TO CAPE FEAR, NORTH CAROLINA.

CAPE HATTERAS LIGHT. -- HABITS OF BIRDS. -- STORM AT

HATTERAS INLET -- MILES OF WRECKS. -- THE YACHT JULIA

SEARCHING FOR THE PAPER CANOE. -- CHASED BY PORPOISES.

-- MARSH TACKIES. -- OCRACOKE INLET. -- A GRAVE-YARD

BEING SWALLOWED UP BY THE SEA. -- CORE SOUND. -- THREE

WEDDINGS AT HUNTING QUARTERS. -- MOREHEAD CITY. --

NEWBERN. -- SWANSBORO. -- A PEA-NUT PLANTATION. -- THE

ROUTE TO CAPE FEAR.

Cape Hatteras is the apex of a

triangle. It is the easternmost part of the

state of North Carolina, and it extends farther

into the ocean than any Atlantic cape of the

United States. It presents a low, broad, sandy

point to the sea, and for several miles beyond it,

in the ocean, are the dangerous Diamond Shoals,

the dread of the mariner.

The Gulf Stream, with its river-like current

of water flowing northward from the Gulf of

Mexico, in its oscillations from east to west

frequently approaches to within eighteen or twenty

miles of the cape, filling a large area of

atmosphere with its warmth, and causing frequent

local disturbances. The weather never remains

long in a settled state. As most vessels try to

make Hatteras Light, to ascertain their true

position, &c., and because it juts out so far into the

Atlantic, the locality has become the scene of

many wrecks, and the beach, from the cape

down to Hatteras Inlet, fourteen miles, is strewn

with the fragments of vessels.

The coast runs north and south above, and

east and west south of the cape. The old light

house had been replaced by the finest light-tower

I had ever examined, which was completed in

1870. It is one hundred and ninety feet in

height, and shows a white, revolving light.

Body Island Light, though forty feet less in

elevation, is frequently seen by the Hatteras

light-keeper, while the splendid Hatteras Light

had been seen but once by Captain Hatzel, of

Body Island. One nautical mile south of

Hatteras Light is a small beacon light-tower, which

is of great service to the coasting-vessels that

pass it in following the eighteen-feet curve of

the cape two miles from the land inside of

Diamond Shoals.

While speaking of light-houses, it may be

interesting to naturalists who live far inland to

know that while (as they are well aware)

thousands of birds are killed annually during their

flights by striking against telegraphic wires,

many wild-fowls are also destroyed by dashing

against the lanterns of the light- towers during

the night. While at Body Island Beach, Captain

Hatzel remarked to me that, during the first

winter after the new light-tower was completed,

the snow-geese, which winter on the island, would

frequently at night strike the thick glass panes

of the chamber, and fall senseless upon the floor

of the gallery. The second season they did not

in a single instance repeat the mistake, but had

seemingly become educated to the character of

the danger.

I have seen one lantern damaged to the

amount of five hundred dollars, by a goose

breaking a pane of glass and striking heavily

upon the costly lens which surrounds the lamp.

Light-keepers sometimes sit upon the gallery,

and, looking along the pathway of light which

shoots into the outer darkness over their heads,

will see a few dark specks approaching them in

this beam of radiance. These specks are birds,

confused by the bright rays, and ready to fall an

easy prey to the eager keeper, who, quickly

levelling his double-barrelled gun, brings it to bear

upon the opaque, moving cloud, and with the

discharge of the weapon there goes whirling

through space to the earth below his next

morning's breakfast of wild-fowl.

I found Mr. W. R. Jennett and his first

assistant light-keeper, Mr. A. W. Simpson, intelligent

gentlemen. The assistant has devoted his time,

when off duty, to the study of the habits of

food-fishes of the sound, and has furnished the

United States Commission of Fisheries with

several papers on that interesting subject.

Here also was Mr. George Onslow, of the

United States Signal Service, who had completed

his work of constructing a telegraph line from

Norfolk along the beach southward to this point,

its present terminus. With a fine telescope he

could frequently identify vessels a few miles

from the cape, and telegraph their position to

New York. He had lately saved a vessel by

telegraphing to Norfolk its dangerous location

on Hatteras beach, where it had grounded. By

this timely notice a wrecking-steamer had

arrived and hauled the schooner off in good

condition.

A low range of hills commences at Cape

Hatteras, in the rear of the light-house, and extends

nearly to Hatteras Inlet. This range is heavily

wooded with live-oaks, yellow pines, yaupons,

cedars, and bayonet-plants. The fishermen and

wreckers live in rudely constructed houses,

sheltered by this thicket, which is dense enough to

protect them from the strong winds that blow

from the ocean and the sound.

I walked twelve miles through this pretty,

green retreat, and spent Sunday with Mr. Homer

W. Styron, who keeps a small store about two

miles from the inlet. He is a self-taught

astronomer, and used an ingeniously constructed

telescope of his own manufacture for studying

the heavens.

I found at the post-office in his store a letter

from a yachting party which had left Newbern,

North Carolina, to capture the paper canoe and

to force upon its captain the hospitality of the

people of that city, on the Neuse River, one

hundred miles from the cape. Judge I.E. West,

the owner of the yacht "Julia," and his friends,

had been cruising since the eleventh day of the

month from Ocracoke Inlet to Roanoke Island

in search of me. Judge West, in his letter,

expressed a strong desire to have me take my

Christmas dinner with his family. This

generous treatment from a stranger was fully

appreciated, and I determined to push on to

Morehead City, from which place it would be

convenient to reach Newbern by rail without

changing my established route southward, as I

would be compelled to do if the regular water

route of the Neuse River from Pamlico Sound

were followed.

On this Saturday night, spent at Hatteras Inlet,

there broke upon us one of the fiercest tempests

I ever witnessed, even in the tropics. My

pedestrian tramp down the shore had scarcely ended

when it commenced in reality. For miles along

the beach thousands of acres of land were soon

submerged by the sea and by the torrents of

water which fell from the clouds. While for a

moment the night was dark as Erebus, again

the vivid flash of lightning exposed to view the

swaying forests and the gloomy sound. The sea

pounded on the beach as if asking for admission

to old Pamplico. It seemed to say, I demand a

new inlet; and, as though trying to carry out its

desire, sent great waves rolling up the shingle

and over into the hollows among the hills,

washing down the low sand dunes as if they also

were in collusion with it to remove this frail

barrier, this narrow strip of low land which

separated the Atlantic from the wide interior

sheet of water.

The phosphorescent sea, covered with its tens

of millions of animalcula, each one a miniature

light-house, changed in color from inky blackness

to silver sheen. Will the ocean take to itself

this frail foothold? -- we queried. Will it

ingulf us in its insatiable maw, as the whale did

Jonah? There was no subsidence, no pause in

the storm. It howled, bellowed, and screeched

like a legion of demons, so that the crashing of

falling trees, and the twisting of the sturdy

live oak's toughest limbs, could hardly be heard in

the din. Yet during this wild night my

storm-hardened companion sat with his pretty wife by

the open fireplace, as unmoved as though we

were in the shelter of a mountain side, while he

calmly discoursed of storms, shipwrecks, and

terrible struggles for life that this lonely coast

had witnessed, which sent thrills of horror to

my heart.

While traversing the beach during the

afternoon, as wreck after wreck, the gravestones of

departed ships, projected their timbers from the

sands, I had made a calculation of the number

of vessels which had left their hulls to rot on

Hatteras beach since the ships of Sir Walter

Raleigh had anchored above the cape, and it

resulted in making one continuous line of vessels,

wreck touching wreck, along the coast for many,

many miles. Hundreds of miles of the Atlantic

coast beaches would have been walled in by the

wrecks could they have come on to the strand

at one time, and all the dwellers along the coast,

outside of the towns, would have been placed

in independent circumstances by wrecking their

cargoes.

During this wild night, while the paper canoe

was safely stowed in the rushes of the marsh at

the cape, and its owner was enjoying the warmth

of the young astronomer's fire at the inlet, less

than twenty miles from us, on the dangerous

edge of Ocracoke shoals, the searching party of

the yacht Julia were in momentary expectation

of going to the bottom of the sound. For hours

the gallant craft hung to her anchors, which

were heavily backed by all the iron ballast that

could be attached to the cables. Wave after

wave swept over her, and not a man could put

his head above the hatches. Then, as she rolled

in the sea, her cabin-windows went under, and

streams of water were forced through the ports

into the confined space which was occupied by the

little party. For a time they were in imminent

danger, for the vessel dragged anchor to the edge

of the shoal, and with a heavy thud the yacht

struck on the bottom. All hopes of ever

returning to Newbern were lost, when the changing

tide swung the boat off into deeper water, where

she rode out the storm in safety.

Before morning the wind shifted, and by nine

o'clock I retraced my steps to the cape, and on

Tuesday rowed down to Hatteras Inlet, which

was reached a little past noon. Before

attempting to cross this dangerous tidal gate-way of the

ocean I hugged the shore close to its edge, and

paused to make myself familiar with the

sandhills of the opposite side, a mile away, which

were to serve as the guiding-beacons in the

passage. How often had I, lying awake at night,

thought of and dreaded the crossing of this

ill-omened inlet! It had given me much mental

suffering. Now it was before me. Here on my

right was the great sound, on my left the

narrow beach island, and out through the portal

of the open inlet surged and moaned under a

leaden sky that old ocean which now seemed to

frown at me, and to say: "Wait, my boy, until

the inlet's waves deliver you to me, and I will

put you among my other victims for your

temerity."

As I gazed across the current I remarked that

it did not seem very rough, though a strong ebb

was running out to the sea, and if crossed

immediately, before the wind arose, there could be

no unreasonable risk. My canvas deck-cover

was carefully pulled close about my waist, and a

rigid inspection of oars and row-locks was made;

then, with a desire to reserve my strength for

any great demand that might be made upon it a

little later, I rowed with a steady stroke out into

Hatteras Inlet. There was no help nearer than

Styron's, two miles away on the upper shore,

while the beach I was approaching on the other

side was uninhabited for nearly sixteen miles, to

the village at its southern end, near Ocracoke

Inlet. Upon entering the swash I thought of the

sharks which the Hatteras fishermen had told

me frequently seized their oars, snapping the

thin blades in pieces, assuring me, at the same

time, that mine would prove very attractive,

being so white and glimmering in the water, and

offering the same glittering fascination as a

silver-spoon bait does to a blue-fish. These

cheerful suggestions caused a peculiar creeping

sensation to come over me, but I tried to quiet

myself with the belief that the sharks had

followed the blue-fish into deeper water, to escape

cold weather.

The canoe crossed the upper ebb, and entered

an area where the ebb from the opposite side of

the inlet struck the first one. While crossing

the union of the two currents, a wind came in at

the opening through the beach, and though not

a strong one, it created a great agitation of the

water. The dangerous experience at

Watchapreague Inlet had taught me that when in such

a sea one must pull with all his strength, and

that the increased momentum would give greater

buoyancy to the shell; for while under this

treatment she bounced from one irregular wave to

another with a climbing action which greatly

relieved my anxiety. The danger seemed to be

decreasing, and I stole a furtive glance over my

shoulder at the low dunes of the beach shore

which I was approaching, to see how far into the

inlet the tide had dragged me. The white water

to leeward warned me of a shoal, and forced me

to pull hard for the sound to escape being drawn

into the breakers. This danger was hardly

passed, when suddenly the waters around me

seethed and foamed, and the short waves parted

and closed, as great creatures rose from the

deep into the air several feet, and then fell

heavily into the sea. My tiny shell rocked and

pitched about wildly as these animals appeared

and disappeared, leaping from the waves all around

me, diving under the boat and reappearing on

the opposite side. They lashed the current with

their strong tails, and snorted or blowed most

dismally. For an instant surprise and alarm took

such possession of me that not a muscle of my

arms obeyed my will, and the canoe commenced

to drift in the driving stream towards the open

sea. This confusion was only momentary, for as

soon as I discovered that my companions were

porpoises and only old acquaintances, I

determined to avoid them as soon as possible.

With a quick glance at my stern range, a

sandhill on the shore of the inlet, and another look

over my shoulder for the sand dunes of the other

side, I exerted every muscle to reach the beach;

but my frisky friends were in no mood to leave

me, but continued their fun with increased

energy as reinforcements came up from all directions.

The faster I rowed the more they multiplied,

ploughing the sea in erratic courses. They were

from five to seven feet in length, and must have

weighed from two hundred to four hundred

pounds each. Though their attentions were

kindly meant, their brusqueness on such an unsteady

footing was unpardonable. I most feared the

strong, shooting movements of their tails in the

sudden dives under my canoe, for one sportive

touch of such a caudality would have rolled

me over, and furnished material for a tale the

very anticipation of which was unpleasant.

Crossing Hatteras Inlet (112K)

The aquatic gambols of the porpoises lasted

but a few minutes after they had called in all

their neighbors, and had chased me into three

feet depth of water. They then spouted a nasal

farewell, which sounded more catarrhal than

guitaral, and left me for the more profitable

occupation of fishing in the tide-way of the inlet,

while I rowed into a shallow cove, out of the

ebb, to rest, and to recover from the effects of

my fright.

As I pulled along the beach the tide receded

so rapidly that the canoe was constantly

grounding, and wading became necessary, for I could

not get within several feet of the shore. When

five miles from Hatteras Inlet I espied an empty

grass cabin, which the fishermen used in

February while catching shad; and, as a southerly wind

was now blowing from the sea, and rain was

falling, it offered a night's shelter for the traveller.

This Robinson Crusoe looking structure was

located upon the low land near the sound, while

bleak, sharp-pointed, treeless and grassless

sandhills, blown into shape by the winds, arose in the

background, and cut off a view of the ocean,

which, judging from the low, melancholy

moaning coming over the dunes, was in a sad mood.

The canoe was hauled into the bushes and

tied securely for fear a deceptive tide might bear

it away. The provisions, blankets, &c., were

moved into the grass hut, which needed

repairing. The holes in the south wall were soon

thatched, and a bed easily prepared from the

rushes of the marsh. It mattered not that they

were wet, for a piece of painted canvas was

spread over them, and the inviting couch

finished.

As fresh water can usually be obtained on all

these low beaches by digging two or three feet

into the sand, I looked for a large clam-shell, and

my search being rewarded, I was soon engaged

in digging a well near the cabin.

Upon looking up from my work a curious

sight met my gaze. In some mysterious way

every sharp-pointed sand-hill had been covered

by a black object, which swayed about and

nodded up and down in a strange manner. As I

watched the development of this startling

phenomenon, the nodding, black objects grew in

size until the head, body, and four legs of a

horse were clearly cut against the sky. A little

later every crest was surmounted by the comical

figure of a marsh-tacky. Then a few sheep came

out of the hollows among the hills and browsed

on the coarse grass near the cabin, as though

they felt the loneliness of their situation so far

removed from mankind. With the marsh-ponies,

the sheep, the wild-fowls of the sound, and the

sighing sea for companions, the night passed

away.

The bright moonlight roused me at five o'clock

in the morning, and I pushed off again in shoal

water on an ebb-tide, experiencing much

difficulty in dragging the canoe over shallow places

until deep water was entered, when the row to

Ocracoke became an agreeable one. The

landing-place at Ocracoke, not far from the

lighthouse, was reached at noon, and the people

gathered to see the paper boat, having been

notified of my proximity by fishermen.

The women here can pull a pretty good stroke,

and frequently assist their husbands in the

fisheries. These old dames ridiculed the idea of

having a boat so small and light as the canoe.

One old lady laid aside her pipe and

snuff-paddle (snuff-rubbing is a time-honored

institution in the south), and roughly grasping the

bow of the craft, lifted it high in the air, then,

glancing at the fine model, she lowered it slowly

to the ground, exclaiming, "I reckon I wouldn't

risk my life acrossing a creek in her."

These people told me that the yacht Julia had

stopped there to make inquiries for me, and had

departed for Newbern.

It was more than a mile from the landing to

Ocracoke Inlet, and a mile and three quarters

across it to the beach. A straight course from

the landing to the village of Portsmouth, on the

lower side of the inlet, was a distance of five

miles, and not one of the hardy watermen, who

thumped the sides of my boat with their hard

fists to ascertain its strength, believed that I

could cross the sound to the other village

without rolling over. One kind-hearted oysterman

offered to carry myself and boat to Portsmouth,

but as the day was calm, I rowed away on the

five-mile stretch amid doleful prognostications,

such as: "That feller will make a coffin for

hisself out of that yere gimcrack of an egg-shell.

It's all a man's life is wurth to go in her," &c.

While approaching the low Portsmouth shore

of the sound, flocks of Canada geese flew within

pistol-shot of my head. A man in a dug-out

canoe told me that the gunners of the village

had reared from the egg a flock of wild geese

which now aggregated some seven or eight

hundred birds, and that these now flying about were

used to decoy their wild relatives.

Near the beach a sandy hill had been the place

of sepulture for the inhabitants of other

generations, but for years past the tidal current had

been cutting the shore away until coffin after

coffin with its contents had been washed into

the sound. Captain Isaac S. Jennings, of Ocean

County, New Jersey, had described this spot to

me as follows:

"I landed at Portsmouth and examined this

curious burial-ground. Here by the water were

the remains of the fathers, mothers, brothers,

and sisters of the people of the village so near at

hand; yet these dismal relics of their ancestors

were allowed to be stolen away piecemeal by

the encroaching ocean. While I gazed sadly

upon the strata of coffins protruding from the

banks, shining objects like jewels seemed to be

sparkling from between the cracks of their

fractured sides; and as I tore away the rotten wood,

rows of toads were discovered sitting in

solemn council, their bright eyes peering from

among the debris of bones and decomposed

substances."

Portsmouth Island is nearly eight miles long.

Whalebone Inlet is at its lower end, but is too

shallow to be of any service to commerce.

Hatteras and Ocracoke inlets admit sea-going

vessels. It is thirty-eight miles from Whalebone

Inlet to Cape Lookout, which projects like a

wedge into the sea nearly three miles from the

mainland, and there is not another passage

through the narrow beach in all that distance

that is of any use to the mariner. Following

the trend of the coast for eleven miles from the

point of Cape Lookout, there is an inlet, but,

from the character of its channel and its

shallowness, it is not of much value.

Leaving Portsmouth, the canoe entered Core

Sound, which grew narrower as the shoals inside

of Whalebone Inlet were crossed, partly by

rowing and partly by wading on the sand-flats. As

night came on, a barren stretch of beach on my

left hand was followed until I espied the only

house within a distance of sixteen miles along

the sea. It was occupied by a coasting skipper,

whose fine little schooner was anchored a long

distance from the land on account of the

shoalness of the water. Dreary sand-hills protected

the cottage from the bleak winds of the ocean.

While yet a long distance from the skipper's

home, a black object could be seen crawling up

the sides of a mound of white sand, and after it

reached the apex it remained in one position,

while I rowed, and waded, and pulled my canoe

towards the shore. When the goal was reached,

and the boat was landed high up among the

scrub growth, I shouldered my blankets and

charts, and plodded through the soft soil towards

the dark object, which I now recognized to be a

man on a lookout post. He did not move from

his position until I reached the hillock, when he

suddenly slid down the bank and landed at my

feet, with a cheery --

"Well, now, I thought it was you. Sez I to

myself, That's him, sure, when I seed you

four miles away. Fust thinks I, It's only a

log, or a piece of wrak-stuff afloating. Pretty

soon up comes your head and shoulders into

sight; then sez I, It's a man, sure, but where is

his boat? for you see, I couldn't see your boat, it

was so low down in the water. Then I reckoned

it was a man afloating on a log, but arter a

while the boat loomed up too, and I says, I'll be

dog-goned if that isn't him. I went up to

Newbern, some time ago, in the schooner, and the

people there said there was a man coming down

the coast a-rowing a paper boat on a bet. The

boat weighed only fifty-eight pounds, and the

man had a heft of only eighty pounds. When

pa and me went up to the city agin, the folks

said the man was close on to us, and this time

they said the man and his boat together weighed

only eighty pounds. Now I should think you

weighed more than that yourself, letting alone

the boat."

Having assured the young man that I was

indeed myself, and that the Newbern people had

played upon his credulity, we walked on to the

house, where the family of Captain James Mason

kindly welcomed me to a glowing wood-fire and

hearty supper. Though I had never heard of

their existence till I entered Core Sound, the

kindness of these people was like that of old

friends.

Half a mile below Captain Mason's home, a

short time before my visit, a new breach had

been made by the ocean through the beach.

About twenty years before a similar breach had

occurred in the same locality, and was known

during its short life as "Pillintary Inlet." The

next day I crossed the sound, which is here four

miles in width, and coasted along to the

oystermen's village of Hunting Quarters, on the

mainland. The houses were very small, but the

hearts of the poor folks were very large. They

came to the water's edge and carried the canoe

into the only store in the neighborhood. Its

proprietor, Mr. William H. Stewart, insisted

upon my sharing his bachelor's quarters in an

unfinished room of the storehouse. My young

host was hardly out of his teens. In his boyish

way he kindly remarked:

"I am here all alone. Father told me, before

he died, never to let a stranger pass my door but

to make him share my lodgings, humble though

they are; and now, any way, you're just in time

for the fun, for we are to have three weddings

to-night, and all the boys and girls of the

neighborhood will be at Hunting Quarters."

I entered a mild protest against joining in the

festivities, on the plea of not having received an

invitation; at which the handsome youth laughed

heartily.

"Invitation!" he exclaimed; "why, no one

ever gives out invitations in Hunting Quarters.

When there is to be a 'jolliflcation' of any sort,

everybody goes to the house without being

asked. You see we are all neighbors here. Up

at Newbern and at Beaufort, and other great

cities, people have their ways, but here all are

friends."

So we went to the little house in the piny

forest, where two hearts were to be made one.

The only room on the first floor was crowded

with people. The minister had not arrived, and

the crowd was gazing at the young groom and his

pretty bride-elect as they sat in two chairs in the

middle of the company, with their arms around

each other, never speaking a word to any one.

The heavy weight of people began to settle the

floor, and as two joists gave way I struggled to

escape through an open window, thinking we

would be precipitated into the cellar below.

But the good-natured company took no notice

of the snapping timbers, only ejaculating, "She'll

soon touch bottom;" and to my inquiries about

the inconvenience of being pitched through to

the cellar, a rustic youth, with great merriment

depicted upon his countenance, replied:

"Sullers, captain, why, there ain't a suller to a

buildin' within thirty miles of the Quarters. We

never uses sullers hereabouts."

By my side was a young fisherman, who had

got home from a cruise, and was overflowing

with affection towards every girl present. "O,

gals," he would cry, "you don't know how nice

I feels to get back to you once more!"

Throwing his arms around a bright-eyed girl, who

vainly tried to escape him, he said, "O, weary

mariner, here is thy rest! No more shall he

wander from thee."

This sentimental strain was interrupted by an

old lady, who reached her arm over my

shoulder to administer a rebuke. "Sam, ye're a fool!"

she cried; "ye're beside yourself to-night, and

afore this paper-canoe captain, too. Ef I was

a gal I'd drap yere society, wid yere familiar

ways right in company."

The blow and the admonition fell harmlessly

upon the head and the heart of the sailor, who

replied, "Aunty, I knows my advantages in

Hunting Quarters -- women is plenty, and men

is few."

The crowd roared with laughter at this truism,

but were quieted by the shout of a boy that

the preacher was a-coming; whereupon the

reverend gentleman elbowed his way through

the guests to the quiet couple, and requested

them to stand up. A few hurried words by the

clergyman, a few bashful replies from the young

people, and the two were made one. The crowd

rushed outside of the house, where a general

scramble took place among the boys for their

girls. Then a procession was formed, headed

by the clergyman, which marched along the

sandy road to another house in the woods, where

the second marriage was to be celebrated.

It was amusing to see the young men dash

away from the procession, to run to the village store

for candy at twenty-five cents per pound,

containing as much terra alba (white clay) as sugar.

With well-filled pockets they would run back to

the procession and fill the girls' aprons with the

sweets, soon repeating the process, and

showering upon the fair ones cakes, raisins, nuts, and

oranges. The only young man who seemed to

find no favor in any woman's eyes invested

more capital in sweetmeats than the others; and

though every girl in the procession gave him a

sharp word or a kick as he passed, yet none

refused his candies as he tossed them at the

maidens, or stuffed them into the pockets of their

dresses.

The second ceremony was performed in about

three minutes, and the preacher feeling faint from

his long ride through the woods, declared he must

have some supper. So, while he was being

served, the girls chatted together, the old ladies

helped each other to snuff with little wooden

paddles, which were left protruding from one corner

of their mouths after they had taken "a dip,"

as they called it. The boys, after learning that

the preacher had postponed the third marriage

for an hour, with a wild shout scampered off

to Stewart's store for more candies. I took

advantage of the interim to inquire how it was

that the young ladies and gentlemen were upon

such terms of pleasant intimacy.

"Well, captain," replied the person

interrogated, "you sees we is all growed up together,

and brotherly love and sisterly affection is our

teaching. The brethren love the sisteren; and

they say that love begets love, so the sisteren

loves the brethren. It's parfecly nateral. That's

the hull story, captain. How is it up your way?"

At last the preacher declared himself satisfied

with all he had eaten, and that enough was as

good as a feast; so the young people fell into line,

and we trudged to the third house, where, with

the same dispatch, the third couple were united.

Then the fiddler scraped the strings of his

instrument, and a double-shuffle dance commenced.

The girls stamped and moved their feet about in

the same manner as the men. Soon four or five

of the young ladies left the dancing-party, and

seated themselves in a corner, pouting

discontentedly. My companion explained to me that

the deserters were a little stuck-up, having

made two or three visits on a schooner to the

city (Newbern), where they had other ways

of dancing, and where the folks didn't think

it pretty for a girl to strike her heels upon the

floor, &c.

How long they danced I know not, for the

prospect of a long row on the morrow sent me

to rest in the storehouse, from which I was called

by a kind old couple sending for me to take tea

with them at half an hour after midnight.

Unwilling to wound the sensitive feelings of these

hospitable people, I answered the summons in

propia persona, and found it was the mother

of bride No. 1, to whom I was indebted for

the invitation. A well-filled table took up the

space in the centre of the room, where a few

hours before the timbers creaked beneath the

weight of the curious crowd; and there, sitting

on one side in the same affectionate manner I

have described, were the bride and groom,

apparently unmoved by the change of scene, while

the bride's mother rocked in her chair, moaning,

"O John, if you'd taken the other gal, I might

have stood it, but this yere one has been my

comfort."

At dawn the canoe was put into Core Sound,

and I followed the western shore, cheered by the

bright sun of our Saviour's natal day. At noon

the mouth of the thoroughfare between Harker's

Island and the mainland was unintentionally

passed, and I rowed along by the side of the

island next Fort Macon, which is inside of the

angle made by Cape Lookout.

Finding it impossible to reach Newbern via

Morehead City that day, the canoe was beached

upon the end of Harker's Island, where I

breakfasted at the fashionable hour of two P. M., with

men, women, and children around me. My

mode of cooking the condensed food and liquid

beef; so quickly prepared for the palate, and the

remarkable boat of paper, all filled the islanders

with wonder. They were at first a little shy,

looking upon the apparition -- which seemed in

some wonderful way to have dropped upon

their beach -- with the light of curiosity in their

eyes.

Then, as I explained the many uses to which

paper was put, even to the paying off of great

national debts, my audience became very

friendly, and offered to get me up a Christmas dinner

in their cabins among the groves of trees near

the strand, if I would tarry with them until night.

But time was precious; so, with thanks on my

part for their kind offers, we parted, they helping

me launch my little boat, and waving a cheerful

adieu as I headed the canoe for Beaufort, which

was quietly passed in the middle of the afternoon.

Three miles further on, the railroad pier of

Morehead City, in Bogue Sound, was reached,

and a crowd of people carried the canoe into

the hotel. A telegram was soon received from

the superintendent of the railroad at Newbern,

inviting me to a free ride to the city in the first

train of the following morning.

The reader who has followed me since I left

the chilly regions of the St. Lawrence must not

have his patience taxed by too much detail, lest

he should weary of my story and desert my

company. Were it not for this fear, it would

give me pleasure to tell how a week was passed

in Newbern; how the people came even from

interior towns to see the paper canoe; how

some, doubting my veracity, slyly stuck the

blades of their pocket-knives through the thin

sides of the canoe, forgetting that it had yet to

traverse many dangerous inlets, and that its

owner preferred a tight, dry boat to one

punctured by knives. Even old men became

enthusiastic, and when I was absent from my little

craft, an uncontrollable ambition seized them,

and they got into the frail shell as it rested upon

the floor of a hall, and threatened its

destruction. It seemed impossible to make one

gentleman of Newbern understand that when the

boat was in the water she was resting upon all

her bearings, but when out of water only upon

a thin strip of wood.

"By George," said this stout gentleman in a

whisper to a friend, "I told my wife I would get

into that boat if I smashed it."

"And what did the lady say, old fellow?"

asked the friend.

"O," he replied, '"she said, 'Now don't make

a fool of yourself, Fatness, or your ambition may

get you into the papers,'" and the speaker fairly

shook with laughter.

While at Newbern, Judge West and his brother

organized a grand hunt, and the railroad

company sent us down the road eighteen miles to a

wild district, where deer, coons, and wild-fowl

were plentiful, and where we hunted all night for

coons and ducks, and all day for deer. Under

these genial influences the practical study of

geography for the first time seemed dull, and I

became aware that, under the efforts of the

citizens of Newbern to remind me of the charms

of civilized society, I was, as a travelling

geographer, fast becoming demoralized.

Could I, after the many pleasures I was daily

enjoying, settle down to a steady pull and one

meal a day with a lunch of dry crackers; or

sleep on the floor of fishermen's cabins, with

fleas and other little annoyances attendant

thereon? Having realized my position, I tore myself

away from my many new friends and retraced

my steps to Morehead City, leaving it on

Tuesday, January 5th, and rowing down the little

sound called Bogue towards Cape Fear.

As night came on I discovered on the shore a

grass cabin, which was on the plantation of Dr.

Emmett, and had been left tenantless by some

fisherman. This served for shelter during the

night though the struggles and squealings of a

drove of hogs attempting to enter through the

rickety door did not contribute much to my

repose.

The watercourses now became more

intricate, growing narrower as I rowed southward.

The open waters of the sound were left behind,

and I entered a labyrinth of creeks and small

sheets of water, which form a network in the

marshes between the sandy beach-islands and

the mainland all the way to Cape Fear River.

The Core Sound sheet of the United States

Coast Survey ended at Cape Lookout, there

being no charts of the route to Masonboro. I was

therefore now travelling upon local knowledge,

which proves usually a very uncertain guide.

In a cold rain the canoe reached the little

village of Swansboro, where the chief personage

of the place of two hundred inhabitants, Mr.

McLain, removed me from my temporary

camping-place in an old house near the turpentine

distilleries into his own comfortable quarters.

There are twenty mullet fisheries within ten

miles of Swansboro, which employ from fifteen

to eighteen men each. The pickled and dried

roe of this fish is shipped to Wilmington and to

Cincinnati. Wild-fowls abound, and the

shooting is excellent. The fishermen say flocks of

ducks seven miles in length have been seen on

the waters of Bogue Sound. Canvas-backs are

called "raft-ducks" here, and they sell from

twelve to twenty cents each. Wild geese bring

forty cents, and brant thirty.

The marsh-ponies feed upon the beaches, in

a half wild state, with the deer and cattle, cross

the marshes and swim the streams from the

mainland to the beaches in the spring, and graze there

until winter, when they collect in little herds,

and instinctively return to the piny woods of

the uplands. Messrs. Weeks and Taylor had

shot, while on a four-days' hunt up the White

Oak River, twenty deer. Captain H. D. Heady,

of Swansboro, informed me that the ducks and

geese he killed in one winter supplied him with

one hundred pounds of selected feathers.

Captain Heady's description of Bogue Inlet was not

encouraging for the future prosperity of this

coast, and the same may be said of all the inlets

between it and Cape Fear.

Rainy weather kept me within doors until

Friday, the 7th of January, when I rowed down

White Oak River to Bogue Inlet, and turned

into the beach thoroughfare, which led me three

miles and a half to Bear Inlet. My course now

lay through creeks among the marshes to the

Stand-Back, near the mainland, where the tides

between the two inlets head. Across this shoal

spot I traversed tortuous watercourses with mud

flats, from which beds of sharp raccoon oysters

projected and scraped the keel of my boat.

The sea was now approached from the

mainland to Brown's Inlet, where the tide ran like

a mill-race, swinging my canoe in great circles

as I crossed it to the lower side. Here I took

the widest thoroughfare, and left the beach only

to retrace my steps to follow one nearer the

strand, which conducted me to the end of the

natural system of watercourses, where I found a

ditch, dug seventy years before, which connected

the last system of waters with another series of

creeks that emptied their waters into New River

Inlet.

Emerging from the marshes, my course led

me away from New River Inlet, across open

sheets of water to the mainland, where Dr.

Ward's cotton plantation occupied a large and

cultivated area in the wilderness. It was nearly

two miles from his estate down to the inlet.

The intervening flats among the island marshes

of New River were covered with natural beds

of oysters, upon which the canoe scraped as I

crossed to the narrow entrance of Stump Sound.

Upon rounding a point of land I found, snugly

ensconced in a grove, the cot of an oysterman,

Captain Risley Lewis, who, after informing me

that his was the last habitation to be found in

that vicinity, pressed me to be his guest.

The next day proved one of trial to patience

and muscle. The narrow watercourses, which

like a spider's web penetrate the marshes with

numerous small sheets of water, made travelling

a most difficult task. At times I was lost, again

my canoe was lodged upon oyster-beds in the

shallow ponds of water, the mud bottoms of

which would not hear my weight if I attempted

to get overboard to lighten the little craft.

Alligator Lake, two miles in width, was crossed

without seeing an alligator. Saurians are first

met with, as the traveller proceeds south, in the

vicinity of Alligator Creek and the Neuse River,

in the latitude of Pamplico Sound. During the

cold weather they hide themselves in the soft,

muddy bottoms of creeks and lagoons. All the

negroes, and many of the white people of the

south, assert, that when captured in his winter

bed, this huge reptile's stomach contains the hard

knot of a pine-tree; but for what purpose he

swallows it they are at a loss to explain.

In twelve miles of tortuous windings there

appeared but one sign of human life -- a little

cabin on a ridge of upland among the fringe

of marshes that bordered on Alligator Lake. It

was cheering to a lonely canoeist to see this

house, and the clearing around it with the

season's crop of corn in stacks dotting the field.

All this region is called Stump Sound; but that

sheet of water is a well-defined, narrow,

lake-like watercourse, which was entered not long

after I debouched from Alligator Lake. Stump

Inlet having closed up eighteen months before

my visit, the sound and its tributaries received

tidal water from New Topsail Inlet.

It was a cold and rainy evening when I sought

shelter in an old boat-house, at a landing on

Topsail Sound, soon after leaving Stump Sound.

While preparing for the night's camp, the son

of the proprietor of the plantation discovered

the, to him, unheard-of spectacle of a paper boat

upon the gravelly strand. Filled with curiosity

and delight, he dragged me, paddle in hand,

through an avenue of trees to a hill upon which

a large house was located. This was the boy's

home. Leaving me on the broad steps of the

veranda, he rushed into the hall, shouting to

the family, "Here's a sailor who has come from

the north in a PAPER boat."

This piece of intelligence roused the good

people to merriment. "Impossible!" "A boat

made of paper!" "Nonsense!"

The boy, however, would not be put down.

"But it is made of paper, I tell you; for I

pinched it and stuck my nails into it," he

replied earnestly.

"You are crazy, my boy," some one

responded; "a paper boat never could go through

these sounds, the coon oysters would cut it in

pieces. Now tell us, is the sailor made of

paper, like his boat?"

"Indeed, mother, what I tell you is true; and,

O, I forgot! here's the sailor on the steps, where

I left him." In an instant the whole family were

out upon the veranda. Seeing my

embarrassment, they tried, like well-bred people, to check

their merriment, while I explained to them the

way in which the boy had captured me, and

proposed at once returning to my camp. To

this, however, they would not listen; and the

charming wife of the planter extended her hand

to me, as she said, "No, sir, you will not go back

to the wet landing to camp. This is our home,

and though marauding armies during the late

war have taken from us our wealth, you must

share with us the little we have left." This lady

with her two daughters, who inherited her beauty

and grace of manner, did all in their power to

make me comfortable.

Sunday was the coldest day of the season; but

the family, whose hospitality I enjoyed, rode

seven miles through the woods, some on

horseback, some in the carriage, to the little church

in a heavy pine forest. The next day proved

stormy, and the driving sleet froze upon the

trees and bound their limbs and boughs together

with an icy veneer. My host, Mr. McMillan,

kindly urged me to tarry. During my stay with

him I ascertained that he devoted his attention

to raising ground-peas, or peanuts. Along the

coast of this part of North Carolina this nut is

the chief product, and is raised in immense

quantities. The latter state alone raises annually

over one hundred thousand bushels; while

Virginia and Tennessee produce, some years, a crop

of seven hundred thousand bushels.

Wednesday opened with partially clearing

weather, and the icy covering of the trees

yielded to the softening influences of a southern

wind. The family went to the landing to see

me off, and the kind ladies stowed many

delicacies, made with their own hands, in the bow of

the boat. After rowing a half-mile, I took a

lingering look at the shore, where those who

four days ago were strangers, now waved an

adieu as friends. They had been stript of their

wealth, though the kind old planter had never

raised his hand against the government of his

fathers. This family, like thousands of people

in the south, had suffered for the rash deeds of

others. While the political views of this

gentleman differed from those of the stranger from

Massachusetts, it formed no barrier to their

social intercourse, and did not make him forget

to exhibit the warm feelings of hospitality which

so largely influence the Southerner. I went to

him, as a traveller in search of truth, upon an

honest errand. Under such circumstances a

Northerner does not require a letter of

introduction to nine out of ten of the citizens of the

fifteen ex-slave states, which cover an area of

eight hundred and eighty thousand square miles,

and where fourteen millions of people desire to

be permitted to enjoy the same privileges as the

Constitution of the United States guarantees to

all the states north of Mason and Dixon's line.

From Sloop Landing, on my new friends'

plantation, to New Topsail Inlet I had a brisk

row of five miles. Vessels drawing eight feet of

water can reach this landing from the open sea

upon a full tide. The sea was rolling in at this

ocean door as my canoe crossed it to the next

marsh thoroughfare, which connected it with

Old Topsail Inlet, where the same monotonous

surroundings of sand-hills and marshes are to be found.

The next tidal opening was Rich Inlet, which

had a strong ebb running through it to the

sea. From it I threaded the thoroughfares up

to the mainland, reaching at dusk the "Emma

Nickson Plantation." The creeks were growing

more shallow, and near the bulkhead, or

middleground, where tides from two inlets met, there

was so little water and so many oyster reefs, that,

without a chart, the route grew more and more

perplexing in character. It was a distance of

thirty miles to Cape Fear, and twenty miles

to New Inlet, which was one of the mouths

of Cape Fear River. From the plantation to

New Inlet, the shallow interior sheets of water

with their marshes were called Middle,

Masonboro, and Myrtle sounds. The canoe could

have traversed these waters to the end of

Myrtle Sound, which is separated from Cape Fear

River by a strip of land only one mile and a

half wide, across which a portage can be made

to the river. Barren and Masonboro are the only

inlets which supply the three little sounds above

mentioned with water, after Rich Inlet is passed.

The coast from Cape Fear southward eighty

miles, to Georgetown, South Carolina, has several

small inlets through the beach, but there are no

interior waters parallel with the coast in all that

distance, which can be of any service to the

canoeist for a coast route. It therefore became

necessary for me to follow the next watercourse

that could be utilized for reaching Winyah Bay,

which is the first entrance to the system of

continuous watercourses south of Cape Fear.

The trees of the Nickson Plantation hid the

house of the proprietor from view; but upon

beaching my canoe, a drove of hogs greeted me

with friendly grunts, as if the hospitality of their

master infected the drove; and, as it grew dark,

they trotted across the field, conducting me up

to the very doors of the planter's home, where

Captain Mosely, late of the Confederate army,

gave me a soldier's hearty welcome.

"The war is over," he said, "and any northern

gentleman is welcome to what we have left."

Until midnight, this keen-eyed, intelligent officer

entertained me with a flow of anecdotes of the

war times, his hair-breadth escapes, &c.; the

conversation being only interrupted when he

paused to pile wood upon the fire, the

chimney-place meantime glowing like a furnace. He

told me that Captain Maffitt, of the late

Confederate navy, lived at Masonboro, on the sound;

and that had I called upon him, he could have

furnished, as an old officer of the Coast Survey,

much valuable geographical information. This

pleasant conversation was at last interrupted

by the wife of my host, who warned us in her

courteous way of the lateness of the hour. With

a good-night to my host, and a sad farewell

to the sea, I prepared myself for the morrow's

journey.

CHAPTER XI. FROM CAPE FEAR TO CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA.

A PORTAGE TO LAKE WACCAMAW. -- THE SUBMERGED SWAMPS. --

NIGHT AT A TURPENTINE DISTILLER -- A DISMAL

WILDERNESS. -- OWLS AND MISTLETOE. -- CRACKERS AND NEGROES. --

ACROSS THE SOUTH CAROLINA LINE. -- A CRACKER'S IDEA OF

HOSPITALITY. -- POT BLUFF. -- PEEDEE RIVER. -- GEORGETOWN.

-- WINYAH BAY. -- THE RICE PLANTATIONS OF THE SANTEE

RIVERS. -- A NIGHT WITH THE SANTEE NEGROES. -- ARRIVAL

AT CHARLESTON.

To reach my next point of embarkation a

portage was necessary. Wilmington was

twelve miles distant, and I reached the railroad

station of that city with my canoe packed in a

bed of corn-husks, on a one-horse dray, in time

to take the evening train to Flemington, on Lake

Waccamaw. The polite general freight-agent,

Mr. A. Pope, allowed my canoe to be transported

in the passenger baggage-car, where, as it had

no covering, I was obliged to steady it during

the ride of thirty-two miles, to protect it from

the friction caused by the motion of the train.

Mr. Pope quietly telegraphed to the few families

at the lake, "Take care of the paper canoe;" so

when my destination was reached, kind voices

greeted me through the darkness and offered me

the hospitalities of Mrs. Brothers' home-like inn

at the Flemington Station. After Mr. Carroll had

conveyed the boat to his storehouse, we all sat

down to tea as sociably as though we were old

friends.

On the morrow we carried the Maria Theresa

on our shoulders to the little lake, out of which

the long and crooked river with its dark cypress

waters flowed to the sea. A son of Mr. Short,

a landed proprietor who holds some sixty

thousand acres of the swamp lands of the Waccamaw,

escorted me in his yacht, with a party of ladies

and gentlemen, five miles across the lake to my

point of departure. It was now noon, and our

little party picnicked under the lofty trees which

rise from the low shores of Lake Waccamaw.

A little later we said our adieu, and the paper

canoe shot into the whirling current which rushes

out of the lake through a narrow aperture into

a great and dismal swamp. Before leaving the

party, Mr. Carroll had handed me a letter

addressed to Mr. Hall, who was in charge of a

turpentine distillery on my route. "It is twenty

miles by the river to my friend Hall's," he said,

"but in a straight line the place is just four

miles from here." Such is the character of the

Waccamaw, this most crooked of rivers.

I had never been on so rapid and continuous

a current. As it whirled me along the narrow

watercourse I was compelled to abandon my

oars and use the paddle in order to have my face

to the bow, as the abrupt turns of the stream

seemed to wall me in on every side. Down

the tortuous, black, rolling current went the

paper canoe, with a giant forest covering the

great swamp and screening me from the light

of day. The swamps were submerged, and as

the water poured out of the thickets into the

river it would shoot across the land from one

bend to another, presenting in places the

mystifying spectacle of water running up stream, but

not up an inclined plain. Festoons of gray

Spanish moss hung from the weird limbs of

monster trees, giving a funeral aspect to the

gloomy forest, while the owls hooted as though

it were night. The creamy, wax-like berries

of the mistletoe gave a Druidical aspect to the

woods, for this parasite grew upon the branches

of many trees.

One spot only of firm land rose from the water

in sixteen miles of paddling from the lake, and

passing it, I went flying on with the turbulent

stream four miles further, to where rafts of logs

blocked the river, and the sandy banks, covered

with the upland forest of pines, encroached upon

the lowlands. This was Old Dock, with its

turpentine distillery smoking and sending out

resinous vapors.

Young Mr. Hall read my letter and invited

me to his temporary home, which, though

roughly built of unplaned boards, possessed two

comfortable rooms, and a large fireplace, in

which light-wood, the terebinthine heart of the

pine-tree, was cheerfully blazing.

I had made the twenty miles in three hours,

but the credit of this quick time must be given

to the rapid current. My host did not seem

well pleased with the solitude imposed upon

him. His employers had sent him from

Wilmington, to hold and protect "their turpentine

farm," which was a wilderness of trees covering

four thousand acres, and was valued, with its

distillery, at five thousand dollars. An old

negro, who attended the still and cooked the

meals, was his only companion.

We had finished our frugal repast, when a

man, shouting in the darkness, approached the

house on horseback. This individual, though

very tipsy, represented Law and Order in that

district, as I was informed when "Jim Gore," a

justice of the peace, saluted me in a boisterous

manner. Seating himself by the fire, he

earnestly inquired for the bottle. His stomach, he

said, was as dry as a lime-kiln, and, though

water answers to slake lime, he demanded

something stronger to slake the fire that burned

within him. He was very suspicious of me when

Hall told him of my canoe journey. After

eying me from head to toe in as steady a manner

as he was capable of, he broke forth with: "Now,

stranger, this won't do. What are ye a-travel'ing

in this sort of way for, in a paper dug-out?"

I pleaded a strong desire to study geography,

but the wise fellow replied:

"Geography! geography! Why, the fellers

who rite geography never travel; they stay at

home and spin their yarns 'bout things they

never sees." Then, glancing at his poor

butternut coat and pantaloons, he felt my blue woollen

suit, and continued, in a slow, husky voice:

"Stranger, them clothes cost something; they

be store-clothes. That paper dug-out cost money,

I tell ye; and it costs something to travel the hull

length of the land. No, stranger; if ye be not

on a bet, then somebody's a-paying ye well for it."

For an hour I entertained this roughest of law

dignitaries with an account of my long row, its

trials and its pleasures. He became interested

in the story, and finally related to me his own

aspirations, and the difficulties attending his

efforts to make the piny-woods people respect the

laws and good government. He then described

the river route through the swamps to the sea,

and, putting his arm around me in the most

affectionate manner, he mournfully said:

"O stranger, my heart is with ye; but O, how

ye will have to take it when ye go past those

awful wretches to-morrow; how they will give

it to ye! They most knocked me off my raft,

last time I went to Georgetown. Beware of

them; I warn ye in time. Dern the hussies."

Squire Jim so emphasized the danger that I

became somewhat alarmed, for, more than

anything else, I dreaded an outbreak with rough

women. And then, too, my new acquaintance

informed me that there were four or five of these

wretches, of the worst kind, located several

miles down the stream. As I was about to

inquire into the habits of these ugly old crones,

Mr. Hall, wishing to give Squire James a hint,

remarked that Mr. B_____ might at any time

retire to the next room, where half the bed was at

his disposal.

"Half the bed!" roared the squire; "here

are three of us, and where's my half?"

"Why, squire," hesitatingly responded my

host, Mr. B_____ is my guest, and having but

one bed, he must have half of it -- no less."

"Then what's to become of me?" thundered

his Majesty of the law.

Having been informed that a shake-down

would have been ready had he given notice of

his visit, and that at some future time, when not

so crowded, he could be entertained like a

gentleman, he drew himself up, wrapped in the

mantle of dignity, and replied:

"None of that soft talk, my friend. This

man is a traveller; let him take travellers'

luck -- three in a bed to-night. I'm bound

to sleep with him to-night. Hall, where's the

bottle?"

I now retired to the back room, and, without

undressing, planted myself on the side of the

bed next the wall. Sleep was, however, an

unattainable luxury, with the squire's voice in the

next room, as he told how the country was going

to the dogs, because "niggers and white folks

wouldn't respect the laws. It took half a man's

time to larn it to 'em, and much thanks he ever

got by setting everybody to rights." He wound

up by lecturing Hall for being so temperate,

his diligent search in all directions for bottles or

jugs being rewarded by finding them filled with

unsatisfactory emptiness.

He then tumbled into the centre of the bed,

crowding me close against the wall. Poor Hall,

having the outside left to him, spent the night in

exercising his brain and muscles in vain attempts

to keep in his bed; for when his Majesty of the

law put his arms akimbo, the traveller went to

the wall, and the host to the floor. Thus passed

my first night in the great swamps of the

Waccamaw River.

The negro cook gave us an early breakfast of

bacon, sweet potatoes, and corn bread. The

squire again looked round for the bottle, and

again found nothing but emptiness. He helped

me to carry my canoe along the unsteady footing

of the dark swamp to the lower side of the

raft of logs, and warmly pressed my hand as he

whispered: "My dear B____, I shall think of

you until you get past those dreadful 'wretches.'

Keep an eye on your little boat, or they'll devil

you."

Propelled by my double paddle, the canoe

seemed to fly through the great forest that rose

with its tall trunks and weird, moss-draped

arms, out of the water. The owls were still

hooting. Indeed, the dolorous voice of this bird

of darkness sounded through the heavy woods

at intervals throughout the day. I seemed to

have left the real world behind me, and to have

entered upon a landless region of sky, trees, and

water.

"Beware of the cut-offs," said Hall, before I

left. Only the Crackers and shingle-makers

know them. If followed, they would save you

many a mile, but every opening through the

swamp is not a cut-off. Keep to the main

stream, though it be more crooked and longer.

If you take to the cut-offs, you may get into

passages that will lead you off into the swamps

and into interior bayous, from which you will

never emerge. Men have starved to death in

such places."

So I followed the winding stream, which

turned back upon itself, running north and south,

and east and west, as if trying to box the

compass by following the sun in its revolution. After

paddling down one bend, I could toss a stick

through the trees into the stream where the canoe

had cleaved its waters a quarter of a mile

behind me.

The thought of what I should do in this

landless region if my frail shell, in its rapid flight to

the sea, happened to be pierced by a snag, was,

to say the least, not a comforting one. On what

could I stand to repair it? To climb a tree

seemed, in such a case, the only resource; and

then what anxious waiting there would be for

some cypress-shingle maker, in his dug-out

canoe, to come to the rescue, and take the traveller

from his dangerous lodgings between heaven and

earth; or it might be that no one would pass that

way, and the weary waiting would be even unto

death.

But sounds now reached my ears that made

me feel that I was not quite alone in this desolate

swamp. The gray squirrels scolded among the

tree-tops; robins, the brown thrush, and a large

black woodpecker with his bright red head,

each reminded me of Him without whose notice

not a sparrow falleth to the ground.

Ten miles of this black current were passed

over, when the first signs of civilization appeared,

in the shape of a sombre-looking, two-storied

house, located upon a point of the mainland

which entered the swamp on the left shore of

the river. At this point the river widened to five

or six rods, and at intervals land appeared a few

inches above the water. Wherever the pine

land touched the river a pig-pen of rails offered

shelter and a gathering-place for the hogs,

which are turned loose by the white Cracker

to feed upon the roots and mast of the

wilderness.

Reeve's Ferry, on the right bank, with a little

store and turpentine-still, twenty miles from Old

Dock, was the next sign of the presence of man

in this swamp. The river now became broad as

I approached Piraway Ferry, which is two miles

below Piraway Farm. Remembering the

warnings of the squire as to the "awful wretches in

the big pine woods," I kept a sharp lookout for

the old women who were to give me so much

trouble, but the raftsmen on the river explained

that though Jim Gore had told me the truth, I

had misunderstood his pronunciation of the word

reaches, or river bends, which are called in

this vicinity wretches. The reaches referred to

by Mr. Gore were so long and straight as to

afford open passages for wind to blow up them,

and these fierce gusts of head winds give the

raftsmen much trouble while poling their rafts

against them.

My fears of ill treatment were now at rest, for

my tiny craft, with her sharp-pointed bow, was

well adapted for such work. Landing at the

ferry where a small scow or flat-boat was resting

upon the firm land, the ferryman, Mr. Daniel

Dunkin, would not permit me to camp out of

doors while his log-cabin was only one mile

away on the pine-covered uplands. He told me

that the boundary-line between North and South

Carolina crossed this swamp three and a half

miles below Piraway Ferry, and that the first

town on the river Waccamaw, in South Carolina,

Conwayborough, was a distance of ninety miles

by river and only thirty miles by land. There

was but one bridge over the river, from its head

to Conwayborough, and it was built by Mr.

James Wortham, twenty years before, for his

plantation. This bridge was twenty miles below

Piraway, and from it by land to a settlement on

Little River, which empties into the Atlantic,

was a distance of only five miles. A short canal

would connect this river and its lumber regions

with Little River and the sea.

For the first time in my experience as a

traveller I had entered a country where the miles

were short. When fifteen years old I made my

first journey alone and on foot from the vicinity

of Boston to the White Mountains of New

Hampshire. This boyish pedestrian trip

occupied about twenty-one days, and covered some

three hundred miles of hard tramping. New

England gives honest measure on the

finger-posts along her highways. The traveller learns

by well-earned experience the length of her

miles; but in the wilderness of the south there

is no standard of five thousand two hundred and

eighty feet to a statute mile, and the watermen

along the sea-coast are ignorant of the fact that

one-sixtieth of a degree of latitude (about six

thousand and eighty feet) is the geographical

and nautical mile of the cartographer, as well

as the "knot" of the sailor.

At Piraway Ferry no two of the raftsmen and

lumbermen, ignorant or educated, would give the

same distance, either upon the lengths of surveyed

roads or unmeasured rivers. "It is one hundred

and sixty-five miles by river from Piraway Ferry

to Conwayborough," said one who had travelled

the route for years. The most moderate estimate

made was that of ninety miles by river. The

reader, therefore, must not accuse me of

overstating distances while absent from the seaboard,

as my friends of the Coast Survey Bureau have

not yet penetrated into these interior regions with

their theodolites, plane-tables, and

telametrerods. To the canoeist, who is ambitious to score

up miles instead of collecting geographical notes,

these wild rivers afford an excellent opportunity

to satisfy his aims.

From sixty to eighty miles can be rowed in

ten hours as easily as forty miles can be gone

over upon a river of slow current in the

northern states. There is, I am sorry to say,

a class of American travellers who "do" all the

capitals of Europe in the same business-like way,

and if they have anything to say in regard to

every-day life in the countries through which

they pass, they forget to thank the compiler of

the guide-book for the information they possess.

There was but one room in the cabin of my

new acquaintance, who represented that class of

piny-woods people called in the south -- because

they subsist largely upon corn, -- Corn Crackers,

or Crackers. These Crackers are the "poor white

folks" of the planter, and "de white trash" of

the old slave, who now as a freedman is

beginning to feel the responsibility of his position.

These Crackers are a very kind-hearted people,

but few of them can read or write. The children

of the negro, filled with curiosity and a

newborn pride, whenever opportunity permits,

attend the schools in large numbers; but the very

indolent white man seems to be destitute of all

ambition, and his children, in many places in the

south, following close in the father's footsteps,

grow up in an almost unimaginable ignorance.

The news of the arrival of the little Maria

Theresa at Piraway Ferry spread with

astonishing rapidity through the woods, and on Sunday,

after "de shoutings," as the negroes call their

meetings, were over, the blacks came in

numbers to see "dat Yankee-man's paper canno."

These simple people eyed me from head to foot

with a grave sort of curiosity, their great mouths

open, displaying pearly teeth of which a white

man might well be proud. "You is a good man,

capt'n -- we knows dat," they said; and when I

asked why, the answer showed their childlike

faith. "'Cause you couldn't hab come all dis

way in a paper boat if de Lord hadn't helped

you. He dono help only good folks."

The Cracker also came with his children to

view the wonder, while the raftsmen were so

struck with the advantages of my double paddle,

which originated with the inhabitants of the

Arctic regions, that they laid it upon a board and

drew its outlines with chalk. They vowed they

would introduce it upon the river.

These Crackers declared it would take more

than "de shoutings," or any other religious

service, to improve the moral condition of

the blacks. They openly accused the colored

preachers of disturbing the nocturnal rest of

their hens and turkeys; and as to hog-stealing

and cow-killing, "Why, we won't have any

critters left ef this carpet-bag government lasts much

longer!" they feelingly exclaimed.

"We does nothing to nobody. We lets the

niggers alone; but niggers will steal -- they can't

help it, the poor devils; it's in 'em. Now, ef they

eats us out of house and home, what can a poor

man do? They puts 'em up for justices of peace,

and sends 'em to the legislature, when they can't

read more'n us; and they do say it's 'cause we

fit in the Confederate sarvice that they razes the

nigger over our heads. Now, does the folkes up

north like to see white people tyrannized over

by niggers? Jes tell 'em when you go back,

stranger, that we's got soulds like yours up

north, and we's got feelings too, by thunder! jes

like other white men. This was a white man's

country once -- now it's all niggers and dogs.

Why, them niggers in the legislature has

spitboxes lined with gold to spit in! What's this

country a-coming to? We wish the niggers no

harm if they lets our hogs and chickens alone."

After this tirade it was amusing to see how

friendly the whites and blacks were. The

Crackers conversed with these children of Ham, who

had been stealing their hams for so long a time,

in the most kindly way, realizing, perhaps, that

they had various peculiar traits of their own, and

must, after all, endure their neighbors.

A traveller should place facts before his

readers, and leave to them the drawing of the moral.

Northern men and women who go to the

southern states and reside for even the short space of

a year or two, invariably change their life-long

views and principles regarding the negro as a

moral and social creature. When these people

return to their homes in Maine or Massachusetts

(as did the representatives of the Granges of the

northern states after they had visited South

Carolina in 1875) a new light, derived from contact

with facts, dawns upon them, while their

surprised and untravelled neighbors say: "So you

have become Southern in your views. I never

would have thought that of you."

The railroad has become one of the great

mediums of enlightenment to mankind, and joins in

a social fraternity the disunited elements of a

country. God grant that the resources of the

great South may soon be developed by the

capital and free labor of the North. Our sister states

of the South, exhausted by the struggles of the

late war which resulted in consolidating more

firmly than ever the great Union, are now ready

to receive every honest effort to develop their

wealth or cultivate their territory. Let every

national patriot give up narrowness of views and

sectional selfishness and become acquainted with

(not the politicians) the people of the New

South, and a harmony of feeling will soon

possess the hearts of all true lovers of a government

of the people.

The swamp tributaries were swelling the river

into a very rapid torrent as I paddled away from

the ferry on Monday, January 18. A warmer

latitude having been reached, I could dispense

with one blanket, and this I had presented to my

kind host, who had refused to accept payment

for his hospitality. He was very proud of his

present, and said, feelingly, "No one shall touch

this but me." His good wife had baked some

of a rich and very nice variety of sweet-potatoes,

unlike those we get in New Jersey or the other

Middle States-which potatoes she kindly added

to my stores. They are not dry or mealy when

cooked, but seem saturated with honey. The

poor woman's gift now occupied the space

formerly taken up by the blanket I had given her

husband.

From this day, as latitude after latitude was

crossed on my way southward, I distributed

every article I could spare, among these poor,

kind-hearted people. Mr. McGreggor went in

his Rob Roy canoe over the rivers of Europe,

"diffusing cheerfulness and distributing

Evangelical tracts." I had no room for tracts, and if I

had followed the example of my well-

intentioned predecessor in canoeing, it would have

served the cause of truth or creed but little.

The Crackers could not read, and but few of

the grown negroes had been taught letters.

They did not want books, but tobacco. Men

and women hailed me from the banks as I glided

along in my canoe, with, "Say, captain, hab you

eny 'bacca or snuff for dis chile?" Poor

humanity! The Cracker and the freedman fill

alike their places according to the light they

possess. Do we, who have been taught from

our youth sacred things, do more than this?

Do we love our neighbor as ourself?

For twenty miles (local authority) I journeyed

down the stream, without seeing a human being

or a dwelling-place, to Stanley's house and the

bridge; from which I urged the canoe thirty-five

miles further, passing an old field on a bluff,

when darkness settled on the swamps, and a

heavy mist rose from the waters and enveloped

the forests in its folds. With not a trace of land

above water I groped about, running into what

appeared to be openings in the submerged land,

only to find my canoe tangled in thickets. It

was useless to go further, and I prepared to

ascend to the forks of a giant tree, with a light

rope, to be used for lashing my body into a safe

position, when a long, low cry engaged my

attention.

"Waugh! ho! ho! ho! peig -- peig - pe-ig -

pe-ig," came through the still; thick air. It was

not an owl, nor a catamount that cried thus; nor

was it the bark of a fox. It was the voice of a

Cracker calling in his hogs from the forest.

This sound was indeed pleasant to my ears,

for I knew the upland was near, and that a

warm fire awaited my benumbed limbs in the

cabin of this unknown man. Pushing the canoe

towards the sound, and feeling the submerged

border of the swamp with my paddle, I struck

the upland where it touched the water, and

disembarking, felt my way along a well-trodden

path to a little clearing. Here a drove of hogs

were crowding around their owner, who was

scattering kernels of corn about him as he

vociferated, "pe-ig -- pe-ig - pe-ig - pig - pig -

pig." We stood face to face, yet neither could

see the face of the other in the darkness. I told

my tale, and asked where I could find a sheltered

spot to camp.

"Stranger," slowly replied the Cracker, "my

cabin's close at hand. Come home with me.

It's a bad night for a man to lay out in; and the

niggers would steal your traps if they knew you

had anything worth taking. Come with me."

In the tall pines near at hand was a cabin of

peeled rails, the chinks between them being

stuffed with moss. A roof of cypress shingles

kept the rain out. The log chimney, which was

plastered with mud, was built outside of the

walls and against an end of the rustic-looking

structure. The wide-mouthed fireplace sent

forth a blaze of light as we entered the poor

man's home. I saw in the nicely swept floor,

the clean bed-spreads, and the general neatness

of the place, the character of Wilson Edge's

wife.

"Hog and hominy's our food here in the piny

woods," said Mr. Edge, as his wife invited us to

the little table; "and we've a few eggs now and

then to eat with sweet potatoes, but it's up-hill

work to keep the niggers from killing every fowl

and animal we have. The carpet-bag politicians

promised them every one, for his vote, forty acres

of land and a mule. They sed as how the

northern government was a-going to give it to

um; but the poor devils never got any thanks

even for their votes. They had been stuffed

with all sorts of notions by the carpet-baggers,

and I don't blame um for putting on airs and

trying to rule us. It's human natur, that's all.

We don't blame the niggers half so much as

those who puts it in their heads to do so; but it's

hard times we've had, we poor woods folks.

They took our children for the cussed war, to

fight fur niggers and rich people as owned um.

"We never could find out what all the fuss

was about; but when Jeff Davis made a law to

exempt every man from the army who owned

fifteen niggers, then our blood riz right up,

and we sez to our neighbors, 'This ere thing's

a-getting to be a rich man's quarrel and a poor

man's fight.' After all they dragged off my boy

to Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, and killed him

a fighting for what? Why, for rich nigger

owners. Our young men hid in the swamps,

but they were hunted up and forced into the

army. Niggers has been our ruin. Ef a white

man takes a case before a nigger justice, he

gives the nigger everything, and the white man

has to stand one side. Now, would you folks up

north like to have a nigger justice who can't

read nor count ten figgurs?"

I tried to comfort the poor man, by assuring

him that outside of the political enemies of our

peace, the masses in the north were honestly

inclined towards the south now that slavery

was at an end; and that wrong could not long

prevail, with the cheerful prospect of a new

administration, and the removal of all

unconstitutional forces that preyed upon the south.

The two beds in the single room of the cabin

were occupied by the family; while I slept upon

the floor by the fire, with my blankets for a

couch and a roll of homespun for a pillow,

which the women called "heading." They

often said, "Let me give you some heading for

your bed." We waited until eight o'clock the

next day for the mists to rise from the swamps.

My daily trouble was now upon me. How could

I remunerate a southerner for his cost of

keeping me, when not, in the true sense of the word,

an invited guest to his hospitality?

Wilson Edge sat by the fire, while his wife

and little ones were preparing to accompany me

to see the paper boat. "Mr. Edge," I

stammered, "you have treated me with great

kindness, your wife has been put to some

inconvenience as I came in so unexpected a manner, and

you will really oblige me if you will accept a

little money for all this; though money cannot

pay for your hospitality. Grant my wish, and

you will send me away with a light heart."

The poor Cracker lowered his head and slowly

ran his fingers through his coal black hair. For

a moment he seemed studying a reply, and then

he spoke as though HE represented the whole

generous heart of the south.

"Stranger," he slowly articulated,"Stranger,

I have known white men to be niggers enough

to take a stranger's money for lodgings and

vittles, but I am not that man."

We found the canoe as it had been left the

night before, and I was soon pulling down the

river. The great wilderness was traversed thirty

miles to the county town of Conwayborough,

where the negroes roared with laughter at the

working of the double paddle, as I shot past the

landing-place where cotton and naval stores

were piled, waiting to be lightered nine miles to

Pot Bluff, -- so called from the fact of a pot

being lost from a vessel near it, -- which place

is reached by vessels from New York drawing

twelve feet of water. Though still a long

distance from the ocean, I was beginning to feel its

tidal influences. At Pot Bluff, the landing and

comfortable home of its owner, Mr. Z. W.

Dusenberry, presented a pleasant relief after the

monotony of the great pine forests. This

enterprising business man made my short stay a very

pleasant one.

Wednesday, January 20th, was cold for this

latitude, and ice formed in thin sheets in the

water-pails. Twenty-two miles below Pot Bluff,

Bull Creek enters the Waccamaw from the

Peedee River. At the mouth of this connecting

watercourse is Tip Top, the first rice plantation

of the Waccamaw. The Peedee and its sister

stream run an almost parallel course from Bull

Creek to Winyah Bay, making their debouchure

close to the city of Georgetown. Steam

sawmills and rice plantations take the place of the

forests from a few miles below Tip Top to the

vicinity of Georgetown.

Mr. M. L. Blakely, of New York, one of the

largest shingle manufacturers of the south,

occupied as his headquarters the Bates Hill

Plantation, on the Peedee. This gentleman had invited

me, through the medium of the post-office, to

visit him in the rice-growing regions of South

Carolina. To reach his home I took the short

"cut-off" which Bull Creek offered, and entered

upon the strongest of head-currents. The thick

yellow, muddy torrent of the Peedee rushed

through Bull Creek with such volume, that I

wondered if it left much water on the other side

to give character to the river, as it followed its

own channel to Winyah Bay.

One and a half miles of vigorous paddling

brought me to a branch of the watercourse,

which is much narrower than the main one, and

is consequently called Little Bull Creek. This

also comes from the Peedee River, and its source

is nearer to the Bates Hill plantation than the

main Bull Creek. To urge the canoe up this

narrow stream three miles and a half to the

parent river Peedee, was a most trying ordeal.

At times the boat would not move a hundred

feet in five minutes, and often, as my strength

seemed failing me, I caught the friendly branches

of trees, and held on to keep the canoe from

being whirled down the current towards the

Waccamaw. After long and persistent efforts

had exhausted my strength, I was about to seek

for a resting-place in the swamp, when a view

of the broad Peedee opened before me, and with

vigorous strokes of the paddle the canoe slowly

approached the mighty current. A moment

more and it was within its grasp, and went flying

down the turbulent stream at the rate of ten

miles an hour.

A loud halloo greeted me from the swamp,

where a party of negro shingle-makers were at

work. They manned their boat, a long cypress

dug-out, and followed me. Their employer, who

proved to be the gentleman whose abiding-place

I was now rapidly approaching, sat in the stern.

We landed together before the old

plantation house, which had been occupied a few years

before by members of the wealthy and powerful

rice-planting aristocracy of the Peedee, but was

now the temporary home of a northern man,

who was busily employed in guiding the labors

of his four hundred freedmen in the swamps of

North and South Carolina.

The paper canoe had now entered the regions

of the rice-planter. Along the low banks of the

Peedee were diked marshes where, before the

civil war, each estate produced from five

thousand to forty thousand bushels of rice annually,

and the lords of rice were more powerful than

those of cotton, though cotton was king. The

rich lands here produced as high as fifty-five

bushels of rice to the acre, under forced slave

labor; now the free blacks cannot wrest from

nature more than twenty-five or thirty bushels.

Fine old mansions lined the river's banks, but

the families had been so reduced by the ravages

of war, that I saw refined ladies, who had been

educated in the schools of Edinburgh, Scotland,

overseeing the negroes as they worked in the

yards of the rice-mills. The undaunted spirit of

these southern ladies, as they worked in their

homes now so desolate, roused my admiration.

A light, graceful figure, enveloped in an old

shawl, and mounted on an old horse, flitted about

one plantation like a restless spirit.

"That lady's father," said a gentleman to me,

"owned three plantations, worth three millions

of dollars, before the war. There is a rice-mill

on one of the plantations which cost thirty

thousand dollars. She now fights against misfortune,

and will not give up. The Confederate war

would not have lasted six months if it had not

been for our women. They drove thousands of

us young men into the fight; and now, having

lost all, they go bravely to work, even taking the

places of their old servants in their grand old

homes. It's hard for them, though, I assure

you."

On Tuesday, January 25th, I paddled down the

Peedee, stopping at the plantations of Dr.

Weston and Colonel Benjamin Allston. The latter

gentleman was a son of one of the governors of

South Carolina. He kindly gave me a letter of

introduction to Commodore Richard Lowndes,

who lived near the coast. From the Peedee I

passed through a cut in the marshes into the

broad Waccamaw, and descended it to Winyah

Bay.

Georgetown is located between the mouths of

the Peedee and Sampit rivers. Cautiously

approaching the city, I landed at Mr. David

Risley's steam saw-mills, and that gentleman kindly

secreted my boat in a back counting-room, while

I went up town to visit the post-office. By some,

to me, unaccountable means, the people had

heard of the arrival of the paper boat, and three

elaborately dressed negro women accosted me

with, "Please show wees tree ladies de little

paper boat."

Before I had reached my destination, the

post-office, a body of men met me, on their way to

the steam-mill. The crowd forced me back to

the canoe, and asked so many questions that I

was sorely taxed to find answers for these

gentlemen. There were three editors in the crowd:

two were white men, one a negro. The young

men, who claimed the position of representatives