Voyage of the Paper Canoe
by Nathaniel H. Bishop · English · Gutenberg #1082 · 499,746 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Voyage of the Paper Canoe
Author: Nathaniel H. Bishop
Release date: October 1, 1997 [eBook #1082]
Most recently updated: April 2, 2015
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1082
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VOYAGE OF THE PAPER CANOE ***
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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 beac
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