Voyage of the Paper Canoe
by Nathaniel H. Bishop · English · Gutenberg #32333 · 503,894 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Voyage of the Paper Canoe
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Voyage of the Paper Canoe
Author: Nathaniel H. Bishop
Release date: May 11, 2010 [eBook #32333]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32333
Credits: Produced by Sigal Alon and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VOYAGE OF THE PAPER CANOE ***
Produced by Sigal Alon and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
[Illustration: Cover]
FREDERICK D. MACY
If thou art borrowed by a friend,
Right welcome shall he be
To read, to study,--not to lend,
But to return to me.
Not that imparted knowledge doth
Diminish learning's store,
But books, I find, when often lent,
Return to me no more.
Would readers all this rule obey,
For good requite not ill,
These hints need not be penn'd that they
Its dictates should fulfill.
* * * * *
Read slowly,--pause frequently,--
Think seriously.--
Keep cleanly,--return duly,
With the corner of the leaves not turn'd down.
NATHANIEL H. BISHOP'S BOOKS.
FOUR MONTHS IN A SNEAK BOX: A Boat Voyage of Twenty-six Hundred Miles
down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, and along the Gulf of Mexico. With
numerous Maps and Illustrations. $2.50.
VOYAGE OF THE PAPER CANOE: A Geographical Journey of Twenty-five Hundred
Miles from Quebec to the Gulf of Mexico. With numerous Illustrations and
Maps, specially prepared for this work Crown 8vo. $2.50.
A THOUSAND MILES' WALK across South America, over the Pampas and the
Andes. Illustrated. A new edition. _In press._
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON.
[Illustration: HOME OF THE ALLIGATOR.]
VOYAGE
OF
THE PAPER CANOE:
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.
EDINBURGH: DAVID DOUGLAS.
1882.
COPYRIGHT
1878,
BY N. H. BISHOP.
UNIVERSITY PRESS: JOHN WILSON & SON
CAMBRIDGE.
TO THE
SUPERINTENDENT, ASSISTANTS, AIDS, AND ALL
EMPLOYÉS 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 PERFORMED, 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 light-house 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, these 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. 1
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. 12
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. 22
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 THE JERSEY.--THE
LITTLE FLEET IN ITS HAVEN OF REST. 42
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. 57
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. 71
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. 98
CHAPTER VIII.
FROM CAPE HENLOPEN TO NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.
THE PORTAGE TO LOVE CREEK.--THE DELAWARE
WHIPPING-POST.--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. 114
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. 148
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 PEA-NUT
PLANTATION.--THE ROUTE TO CAPE FEAR. 180
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. 216
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. 261
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. 291
CHAPTER XIV.
ST. MARY'S RIVER AND THE SUWANEE WILDERNESS.
A PORTAGE TO DUTTON.--DESCENT OF THE ST. MARY'S
RIVER.--FÊTE GIVEN BY THE CITIZENS TO THE PAPER
CANOE.--THE PROPOSED CANAL ROUTE ACROSS FLORIDA.--A
PORTAGE TO THE SUWANEE RIVER.--A NEGRO SPEAKS
ON ELECTRICITY AND THE TELEGRAPH.--A FREEDMAN'S
SERMON. 313
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. 334
LIST OF MAPS
DRAWN AND ENGRAVED AT THE
UNITED STATES COAST SURVEY BUREAU
FOR THE "VOYAGE OF THE PAPER CANOE."
PAGE
1. GENERAL MAP OF ROUTES FOLLOWED BY THE AUTHOR
DURING TWO VOYAGES MADE TO THE GULF OF MEXICO, Opposite 1
* * * * *
GUIDE MAPS OF CANOE ROUTE.
2. FROM QUEBEC, CANADA, TO PLATTSBURGH, NEW YORK
STATE, 12
3. FROM PLATTSBURGH TO ALBANY, 42
4. FROM ALBANY TO NEW YORK CITY, 71
5. FROM NEW YORK CITY TO CAPE HENLOPEN, DELAWARE, 98
6. FROM CAPE HENLOPEN, DELAWARE, TO NORFOLK,
VIRGINIA, 114
7. FROM NORFOLK, VIRGINIA, TO BOGUE INLET, NORTH
CAROLINA, 148
8. FROM BOGUE INLET, NORTH CAROLINA, TO BULL'S
BAY, SOUTH CAROLINA, 180
9. FROM BULL'S BAY, SOUTH CAROLINA, TO ST. SIMON'S
SOUND, GEORGIA, 261
10. FROM ST. SIMON'S SOUND, GEORGIA, TO CEDAR KEYS,
FLORIDA, 317
ILLUSTRATIONS.
ENGRAVED BY JOHN ANDREW & SON.
PAGE
HOME OF THE ALLIGATOR. (Frontispiece.)
GREAT AUK (_Alca impennis_). Extinct. 11
ANCHORED AT LAST, 56
A FULL-RIGGED NAUTILUS CANOE, 57
THE ROB ROY CANOE, 68
THE ABORIGINAL TYPE, 74
* * * * *
Photographed at Disco, Greenland.
THE IMPROVED TYPE.--PAPER CANOE MARIA THERESA, 74
A CAPSIZE IN DELAWARE BAY, 108
DELAWARE WHIPPING-POST AND PILLORY, 147
BODY ISLAND LIGHT HOUSE, 179
CROSSING HATTERAS INLET, 190
RECEPTION AT CHARLESTON POST-OFFICE, 259
THE PANTHER'S LEAP, 345
THE VOYAGE ENDED, 351
[Illustration: General Map of Routes followed by the Author during two
Voyages made to the Gulf of Mexico.
MAP OF ROUTES FOLLOWED BY N. H. BISHOP IN PAPER CANOE
"MARIA THERESA" AND DUCK BOAT "CENTENNIAL REPUBLIC" 1874-1876
_Copyright, 1878 by Lee & Shepard_]
VOYAGE OF THE PAPER CANOE.
* * * * *
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 _Geirfugl_ 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 of 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 pot-hunter 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 Gaspé 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 heart 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 be 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 Gaspé, 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 Gaspé, 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.
André, 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.
[Illustration: GREAT AUK.]
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.
[Illustration: From Quebec, Canada, to Plattsburgh, New York State.
Route of CANOE MAYETA From Quebec Canada to Plattsburgh
N.Y. via St. Lawrence and Richelieu Rivers Followed by N. H. Bishop
in 1874
_Copyright, 1878 by Lee & Shepard_]
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 railroad 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 sternpost, 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 to 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.--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.
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 Pré, 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 straw-thatched 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 of 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 MacIntyre, 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 southward 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 light-house 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, _Horican_, 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
Horican.
[Illustration: From Plattsburgh to Albany.
Route of CANOE MAYETA From Plattsburgh to Albany Via
Lake Champlain and Champlain Canal Followed by N. H. Bishop in 1874
_Copyright, 1878 by Lee & Shepard_]
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, _donnés_ of the mission, René 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,
stripping off their clothing, tearing out their finger-nails 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 baffled 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 relation 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 of
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,[A]
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.
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.
[Illustration: ANCHORED AT LAST.]
FOOTNOTES:
[A] 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.
_Bear_, 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.
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.
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.
[Illustration: A FULL-RIGGED NAUTILUS CANOE.]
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 water-proofed 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
fac-simile 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 deadwoods 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 the stone abutment of a bridge.
The bow struck squarely on the 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."
[Illustration: ROB ROY CANOE.]
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 "new-fangled 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. O.:
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. Macgregor, 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. Mr. W. 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,
in 1874, had 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. Macgregor--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.
[Illustration: From Albany to New York City.
Route of Paper Canoe MARIA THERESA From Albany to New
York City Via Hudson River Followed by N. H. Bishop in 1874
_Copyright, 1878 by Lee & Shepard_]
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[B] 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.
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."
[Illustration: THE ABORIGINAL TYPE (KAYAK.)]
[Illustration: THE IMPROVED TYPE (MARIA THERESA CANOE.)]
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, after 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 twelve 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.
Rondout, 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
vitæ forest probably in existence. Six miles below, on the 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 fresh-water 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 landmark, 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 hard-worked 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. Brakeley, 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 a 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. Henry Beckett, 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 which 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
face; 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 COVERS 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.
FOOTNOTES:
[B] NOTE TO PAGE 72.--The author has been criticised by technical
canoeists for using oars on a canoe. On this cruise, experience proved
that the paddle could be used effectively only two miles out of every
three. Head winds and seas frequently drive the paddler into camp, while
the adaptive cruiser pushes on with oar and outrigger, and avoids the
loss of many hours. Many canoeists exploring our broad watercourses have
adopted the oar as an auxiliary,--the paddle properly taking the
precedence. We are progressing. The canoeist of 1882 may follow the
teachings of common-sense _vs._ unauthorized technical criticisms. Oars
on a light paddling canoe are out of place; but are a most effective
power on a heavy cruising canoe, insuring a successful voyage.
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.
[Illustration: From New York City to Cape Henlopen, Delaware.
Route of Paper Canoe MARIA THERESA From New York City
to Lewes, Del. Via Arthur Kill, Del. & Raritan Canal Followed by
N. H. Bishop in 1874
_Copyright, 1878 by Lee & Shepard_]
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, pan-fish, 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 headway 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 on 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.
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.
[Illustration: A CAPSIZE IN DELAWARE BAY.]
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 _bad_ 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
school-master 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 WHIPPING-POST.--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.
[Illustration: From Cape Henlopen, Delaware, to Norfolk, Virginia.
Route of Paper Canoe MARIA THERESA From Lewes, Del. to
Norfolk, Va. Followed by N. H. Bishop in 1874
_Copyright, 1878 by Lee & Shepard_]
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 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, fire-wood, 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 brown-kill
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 chuck-full 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. Here, 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, blue-fish 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 Hommack. 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
16--, 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
"diamond-backs." 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 umbellus_), 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
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/32333