=* A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook *=

This eBook is made available at no cost and with very few restrictions.

These restrictions apply only if (1) you make a change in the eBook

(other than alteration for different display devices), or (2) you are

making commercial use of the eBook. If either of these conditions

applies, please contact a https://www.fadedpage.com administrator before

proceeding. Thousands more FREE eBooks are available at

https://www.fadedpage.com.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under copyright

in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your country's

copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT

DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

_Title:_ Recollections of Curious Characters and Pleasant Places

_Date of first publication:_ 1881

_Author:_ Charles Lanman (1819-1895)

_Date first posted:_ 19th December, 2024

_Date last updated:_ 19th December, 2024

Faded Page eBook #20241217

This eBook was produced by: Marcia Brooks, Pat McCoy & the online

Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made available by Internet

Archive.

             [Cover Illustration]

    _Edinburgh: Printed by Thomas and Archibald Constable_,

                 FOR

               DAVID DOUGLAS.

            LONDON—— HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO.

          CAMBRIDGE—— MACMILLAN AND CO.

           GLASGOW—— JAMES MACLEHOSE.

[Illustration: THE CLIFFS AT BLOCK ISLAND.]

               RECOLLECTIONS

                  OF

              CURIOUS CHARACTERS

             AND PLEASANT PLACES

                  BY

               CHARLES LANMAN

      AUTHOR OF “A SUMMER IN THE WILDERNESS,” ETC. ETC.

            EDINBURGH: DAVID DOUGLAS

                 1881.

         To Charles Lanman.

    In many a stream besides our narrow creek,

     And broad, green river, you a line have thrown;

     Many adventures, much good luck have known;

    Worthy disciple of old Walton meek.

    Not angler only, you are artist, eke,

     And far-off scenes more wild than are our own,

     You with deft hand have on the canvas shown—

    Sonnets, wherein not words, but colours speak.

    Nor tints alone you rule as by a spell,

     But language, too—your magic rod the pen—

     Skilful therewith to show how Nature looks;

    Nor merely Nature, for you know as well

     Before our minds to bring affairs and men:

     Your lines are charmed in water, pictures, books.

                     W. L. SHOEMAKER.

    WASHINGTON, U. S.

              EDITOR’S PREFACE.

Without being precisely a “popular fallacy,” it is not invariably true

that “whichever way the twig is bent, the tree’s inclined;” and it is,

perhaps, more among those who are destined to wield the pen than among

any other classes of mankind that the proverb oftenest fails.

Mr. Charles Lanman adds another to the long list of those who, finding

the dull details of a mercantile life wholly uncongenial, have ceased to

“cast and balance at a desk,” have shaken the dust of the counting-house

for ever from their feet, and betaken themselves to the filling of other

books than ledgers, and who can point to other than these as their “true

works.” He felt himself inclined more towards literature and art than to

merchandise, to which, for the period of ten years, were bent his early

efforts. Charles Lanman, one of a family of nine children, was born in

Monroe, Michigan, June 14, 1819. On his mother’s side he is of French

extraction. His father, Charles James Lanman, was a lawyer of

Connecticut; and his grandfather, the late Judge James Lanman, of

Norwich, a graduate of Yale College of the class of 1788, was a notable

senator from Connecticut from 1819 to 1825, and a holder of many offices

of honour and responsibility—a man of great public spirit, private

virtues, and usefulness, and of commanding influence. Judge Lanman’s

first wife was a direct descendant of Alice Carpenter, the wife of

William Bradford, of Pilgrim memory; and his second the mother of Park

Benjamin, an editor and poet, well-known and highly esteemed some

twenty-five or thirty years ago, and brother of the late Mrs. John L.

Motley, the historian. His grandson Charles had not the benefit of a

collegiate training, but received his school education at an academy in

Plainfield, Connecticut. He entered, in his sixteenth year, the

counting-room of the famous Indian house of Suydam, Jackson, & Co., New

York City, as a clerk, in 1835, and remained till 1845, when he returned

to his birthplace in Michigan, and edited, for a short time, the _Monroe

Gazette_. In 1846 he was associate editor of the _Cincinnati Chronicle_

with the late Edward D. Mansfield; and, after making a canoe tour up the

Mississippi and through Lake Superior, he returned to New York, and was

associated as a writer with the _Daily Express_. In 1848 he went to

Washington, D.C., with no intention of remaining permanently; but while

there became a writer, and afterwards travelling correspondent, for the

_National Intelligencer_, with which journal he was connected until the

death of its distinguished editors, Messrs. Gales and Seaton. In 1849 he

was married in Georgetown, D.C., to a daughter of Francis Dodge,

formerly of Hamilton, Massachusetts, a gentleman of the “old school,”

who emigrated to Georgetown in 1798, and became a prosperous,

well-known, and honoured merchant of that town, in those happy days when

trade still flourished in the ancient burgh, and long ere its

individuality was merged in that of its huge neighbour, the capital of

the nation, a city by many years its junior. Since his marriage he has

continued to reside in Georgetown, making, however, regular annual

holiday excursions to various parts in the north and south of the

States, and in Canada; angling—for in the Waltonian art he is an

acknowledged adept; sketching—for he is an artist of no mean ability;

and gathering materials for books—for he is a book-maker of no ordinary

talent, zeal, and industry. While engaged in his loved art of

book-making—writing original works, and compiling extensive and useful

books of reference and of biography—he has held various offices of

trust, requiring knowledge of books, affairs, and men. In 1849 he was

appointed Librarian of the War Department, and in this capacity he

organised the library in the executive mansion. He was subsequently

Librarian of Copyrights in the State Department, Librarian of the

Interior Department, and Librarian of the House of Representatives.

While he was Librarian of the War Department he relinquished that

position at the request of Daniel Webster, to become his private

secretary, which post he retained until 1852. In 1857 he was an Examiner

of Depositaries under President Pierce, and afterwards in charge of the

Returns Office in the Interior Department. In 1871 he was brought to the

notice of the first Japanese Minister by his friend the late Professor

Joseph Henry, and engaged to prepare a work on “Life and Resources in

America,” to be translated by the Minister for publication in Japan. The

plan and first chapter which he submitted of the proposed book so

pleased the Minister, that he was invited to become the American

Secretary of the Japanese Legation at Washington, which position he

accepted and still holds.

The list of Mr. Lanman’s published works is a long one. Some have been

republished in England by noted publishers, with titles differing from

their American originals. We gather from Allibone and other sources the

following catalogue:—_Essays for Summer Hours_ (1842-53). _Letters from

a Landscape Painter_ (1845). _A Summer in the Wilderness_ (1847); a

second edition of this was entitled _A Canoe Voyage up the Mississippi_.

_A Tour to the River Saguenay_ (1848). _Letters from the Alleghany

Mountains_ (1849). _Haw-ho-noo; or, Records of a Tourist_ (1851); in

this was reprinted a portion of _Letters from a Landscape Painter_, and

a second edition of it was entitled _The Sugar Camp, and other

Sketches_. _Private Life of Daniel Webster_ (1852; Lond. 1853).

_Adventures in the Wilds of the United States and British Provinces,

with an Appendix on Moose-hunting_ (1856). This was made up of four of

the former publications, with the addition of three tours not till then

published in book form, viz., _The Sources of the Potomac_ (1851); _A

Tour to the River Restigouche_ (1853); _A Winter in the South_ (1854). A

compilation from this, entitled _Adventures in the Wilds of America_,

was made by Charles Richard Weld, Esq., and published by Longmans

(1854). The volumes of our author, numbering four, reprinted in England,

have been well received by the British public. The _Adventures_ were

highly praised by Mr. Jerdan in the _London Literary Gazette_, and they

appear to have been a great favourite of Dickens, who, in the _London

News_, characterised the writer as “a clever and truthful guide.” The

great novelist says: “Mr. Lanman writes like a man who observes

accurately, and describes with spirit and intelligence, rather than one

profound as a naturalist, a geographer, or a politician.” Washington

Irving, too, held the _Adventures_ in high esteem, as did also Edward

Everett. The former, in a letter to the author, genially praising the

book, styled him “the picturesque explorer of our country.” Since 1857

Mr. Lanman has compiled _Dictionary of the United States Congress_

(1859), published by the General Government; _Life of William

Woodbridge_ (1867); _The Red Book of Michigan_ (1871); _The Japanese in

America_ (1872). He has also edited _Prison Life of Alfred Ely_ (1862);

_Sermons by Octavius Perinchief_ (1st series, 1869; 2d series, 1870);

_Octavius Perinchief: His Life of Trial and Supreme Faith_ (1879). In

1876 appeared _Biographical Annals of the Civil Service of the United

States_. This is based on the _Dictionary of Congress_, and contains a

vast amount of biographical and statistical matter—a valuable and

convenient book of reference. Mr. Lanman occasionally contributes

articles (often illustrated by himself) to the American magazines. He

became the American correspondent of the _Illustrated London News_ in

1857, contributing, besides letterpress, illustrations of American

scenery, and in 1869 was a correspondent of the London _Athenæum_. We

have intimated that Mr. Lanman is not only a worker in the fields of

literature, but has amused himself in those of art as well. Indeed, as

an amateur artist, he possesses considerable claims to our notice. He is

a vigorous sketcher in oil, and in a marvellously short while transfers

to his canvas the chief characteristics of a wild silvan scene, or ocean

beach, or foaming cataract, or mountain view. His house in Georgetown

one newspaper writer styles “a veritable museum.” It can with similar

truth be called a choice little picture-gallery, containing, as it does,

original productions of some of the chief American and English modern

artists in both water-colour and oil. Several of his own best studies

and finished paintings can be seen on his walls. He has, stored up in

portfolios, hundreds of his sketches of American scenery, from the

Saguenay and St. Lawrence to the Gulf of Mexico. He has also won some

fame as an angler, having fished in all the best streams of the States

and of Canada. He notices, of course, some of his piscatory experiences

in divers of his travelling sketches. How often has he shared in the

fishy exploits of his friend Daniel Webster at the Little Falls of the

Potomac—a noted place for rock-fish and for bass—and, when i’ the

vein, what anecdotes he can tell of him, “the old man eloquent,” and of

his other fishing crony, Sir John Crampton, formerly British Minister

Plenipotentiary near Washington, an enthusiastic lover of the rod (he

was an artist also), and of old Joe Payne, the quondam _genius loco_,

who was hail-fellow, well met—retaining still an innate politeness, a

native deference—with all the great angler statesmen and artists of his

day, who frequented his well-beloved fishing-ground. Poor Joe!

_Requiescat in pace!_ He died at his humble residence near the Chain

Bridge, one Sunday morning in January 1877, aged 72. He seldom ventured

beyond the sight and hearing of the falls which he held so dear. Many a

big fish did Joe take with either hook or net, of the capture whereof

others claimed the glory—Joe in the meanwhile putting silver in his

pocket. The exploits of this old fisherman have been celebrated in song;

he once pointed out the beauties of the Potomac to Frederika Bremer, who

alluded to him in her American book; and Mr. Lanman loves to mention the

fact that he fished with Joe Payne for twenty-five years.

                CONTENTS.

                              PAGE

      MODES OF AMERICAN TRAVEL,             1

      THE WIZARD OF ANTICOSTI,             22

      FOREST RECOLLECTIONS,               31

      THE HUNTERS OF THE SEA-ELEPHANT,         55

      PETER PITCHLYNN,                 67

      AROUND CAPE HORN,                 95

      MONTAUK POINT,                  121

      SALMON-FISHING ON THE JACQUES CARTIER,      147

      STRATFORD-ON-HOUSATONIC,             161

      THE BOY-HUNTER OF CHICOUTIMIE,          182

      PUSHMATAHAW,                   205

      THE POTOMAC FISHERMAN,              219

      PHASES OF AMERICAN LIFE,             228

      SWORD-FISH FISHING,               250

      NEWFOUNDLAND,                  257

      BLOCK ISLAND,                  266

      STORY OF A MODERN MARINER,            312

            MODES OF AMERICAN TRAVEL.

Among the aborigines inhabiting the present limits of the United States

there were three kinds of water craft employed—the canoe, the pirogue,

and a boat made of buffalo skins; while the land travel was performed on

foot and by means of the snow-shoe. The legitimate canoe consisted of a

delicate framework made of cedar, pointed at both ends, and covered with

the bark of the white birch, sewed together with the slender and

flexible roots of the spruce or tamarack and the sinews of wild animals,

and rendered water-tight with a pitch or gum taken from the white pine.

They varied in length from ten to thirty-five feet, and were capable of

conveying from five to fifty men. The smaller specimens were usually

managed by two men and the larger ones by eight; the former were used in

hunting, and the latter for war purposes or transportation. Their

geographical range was co-extensive with the basin of the Great Lakes

and the river and gulf of the St. Lawrence. On the score of beauty and

lightness they were unsurpassed by any water craft ever invented; were

propelled on smooth water by cedar paddles, and over shallow rapids by

slender poles made of the white ash; and they were supplied with a

simple apparatus by which, when going before the wind, a sail made of

skins could be improvised. At times, moreover, their prows were

ornamented with fantastic devices worked in the bark. The dexterity with

which the Indians could surmount rough waters in their canoes, or pass

down the most fearful rapids in safety, has always been a marvel to the

white man. In voyaging upon streams where perpendicular falls impeded

their course, the delicate vessels as well as their freight were all

carried around, and hence the French term _portage_, which describes

this travelling incident; and while one man could carry a small canoe

with great ease, it only required two men to carry one of the largest on

their shoulders. The rate at which they travelled over smooth waters

was, perhaps, four miles per hour. Every night they were unloaded and,

with their contents, carried ashore; and, in the event of a sudden rain

or the absence of suitable bark for wigwams, they afforded a temporary

shelter for their owners. Such is the vessel which formed the “brigades”

in which Marquette, La Salle, Hennepin, La Hontan, Charlevoix, Henry,

Carver, and M‘Kenzie made their famous explorations in the wilds of

North America, and in which were discovered the sources of the

Mississippi and the Columbia as well as the shores of the Arctic Sea.

The vessel known as the pirogue, and also frequently called a canoe, was

employed by the Indian tribes for precisely the same purposes as the

bark canoe, and propelled in the same manner, but it was always hollowed

out of a single tree, was much heavier, and by no means so frail. It was

more of a Southern institution, but was known everywhere beyond the

range of the white birch. In the valley of the Ohio it was made of the

white wood and sycamore, and frequently designated as a “dug-out;” on

the Lower Mississippi it was formed out of the cotton-wood; and on the

Pacific coast, of the red pine and cedar, where their gunwales were

ornamented with the tusks of the walrus. With regard to the little

vessels made of buffalo skins, to which we have alluded, their

geographical range seems to have been limited to the prairie regions of

the West. They were uncouth affairs, round like a tub, and probably not

much used excepting for the purpose of crossing rivers; and it has been

mentioned as a singular circumstance that they were nearly allied in

form and materials to the Welsh “coracle,” and also to a craft used by

the ancient Egyptians.

As it seems to be a settled question that the horse was not known to the

aborigines of this country, we are forced to the conclusion that their

land travels were not only limited in extent, but that they performed

their journeys chiefly on foot. In the warmer regions this was all well

enough, but in the colder latitudes, when the ground was covered with

snow, foot travelling was a very different affair. Then it was that the

snow-shoe came in to perform its important part in carrying the hunters

from one hunting-ground to another; while the women and children were

somewhat assisted in their journeys by a small sledge drawn by dogs. If

called upon to specify the particular class who have made the most

profitable use of the snow-shoe, we should mention the fur-trappers of

the extreme North-west. The entire equipment of one of these men, for a

winter journey through the forest, when transporting his furs, was a

good pair of snow-shoes, a blanket coat, a flint and steel, a pipe and

tobacco-pouch, a rifle, and a knife; with these things and a roasted

partridge, though he might be alone in the wilderness, with the stars

above him and only a couch of cedar bushes to sleep upon, he was as

happy as a king. Though designed by the untutored savage, the modes of

locomotion now mentioned were the best that could be devised under the

circumstances, and the white man, when he began to penetrate the

wilderness, was glad enough to adopt the customs of the Indian, and they

continue to be in vogue in all the sparsely-settled regions of the

country at the present time.

But after the white race had completed their earlier explorations, and

began to form settlements on the frontiers, and develop the resources of

the country, new varieties of river craft were found necessary, and then

came into existence the Canadian bateau and the keel and flat boats of

American origin. The bateau was, to some extent, modelled after the

birch canoe, propelled in the same manner, but made no pretensions to

beauty, was built of ribs and boards, and capable of carrying three or

four times as great a weight as the largest canoe. They were always

popular with the fur-traders, and were extensively employed during the

old French and the Revolutionary wars. It was in a “brigade” of bateaux

that Abercromby conveyed his army through the entire length of Lake

George; and whenever I imagine the scene, with the long line of crowded

boats, with banners flying and the martial music echoing among the

surrounding mountains, and with here and there a sufficient number of

Indian canoes to give variety to the pageant, I am most deeply impressed

with its beauty and romantic effect.

The keel-boat was another advance, on the score of size and usefulness,

in the frontier art of boat-building. This craft was adapted to those

rivers which ran through a flat or alluvial country, was made to carry

from twenty to forty tons, performed their work above those points where

the steamboat navigation ceased, and were generally propelled, either up

stream or down, by means of pushing with heavy poles and with oars. They

were used in transporting produce down the streams to the various

markets, and returned laden with the merchandise needed by the settlers

in the interior. They were supplied with small cabins for the comfort of

the emigrants, and were particularly numerous on all the tributaries of

the Mississippi, but are now quite obsolete. And it was on the

Mississippi and its larger tributaries that the flat-boat long

performed, and continues to perform, its important mission. A flat-boat,

an ark, and a broad-horn, all convey the same idea in Western parlance.

They were made of solid timbers and heavy boarding, and, though formerly

averaging about sixty feet in length, their later dimensions reached one

hundred and forty, with a width equal to about one-fifth of the length.

They floated with the stream, were managed by immense oars, and, on

arriving at New Orleans, were broken up and sold for lumber. They were

so numerous as to have given existence to a hardy and unique race of

men, consisting of boatmen and pilots, speculators and miscellaneous

adventurers; and some of these strange vessels have been launched on the

headwaters of the Alleghany in New York, and finally reached New Orleans

in safety. The three prominent staples which they conveyed to market

were lumber, coal, and grain, together with a great variety of Western

commodities, including many varieties of live stock. By way of relieving

the monotony of their long pilgrimage, the boatmen were wont to make use

of whisky and other stimulants, and to spend much of their time in

card-playing, as well as dancing to the music of the fiddle; and when

their business affairs were all wound up at New Orleans, with pockets

full of cash, they would have one crowning frolic, and then, taking

passage in the upward-bound steamboats, return to their distant homes in

the north.

During the earlier stages of our civilisation, say from 1775 to 1825,

the most popular mode of travelling was on horseback; and the incipient

commerce of the country was mainly dependent on the pack-horse. In those

days for a man to put on his leggings, strap an overcoat and a pair of

saddle-bags to his saddle, and then reel off a thousand miles on his

favourite horse, was a common occurrence. In this manner did the farmer

visit the larger towns on business, the pioneer dive deeper into the

wilderness, and the member of Congress journey from the interior to

Philadelphia or Washington. And, with few exceptions, the mails of the

Government were all carried on horseback. And those were the times when

the term “riding the circuit” had a meaning which only the lawyers fully

appreciated. Judges and lawyers journeyed from place to place on

horseback, in a solid body; and the jolly adventures which they

experienced, their illegal tricks and sham trials at the wayside inns,

especially in the Western States, have passed into household stories.

Nor were the women of the olden times so frail and destitute of courage

that they could not, when necessary, or prompted by the spirit of

romance, join their husbands, and, on horseback, visit distant places

and friends. And then, how many and interesting and various were the

road-side adventures of those days! How fresh the scenery through which

the roads meandered! What glorious sunsets heralded the equestrians at

the taverns where they were to spend the night! What long talks with the

landlord and his family about farming, and politics, famous horses, and

favourite breeds of cattle, the latest news from Europe, and the

thousand incidents of domestic life, keeping the guests and the hosts

out of their beds until the approach of midnight! But all these things

have passed away for ever—the robust gentleman of the old school, the

healthy and blooming woman, who thought more of her wifely duties than

of her head-gear, the race of superior horses, the quiet home-like

inns—all, for the most part, are among the things departed. In the

Southern States the use of the horse for riding was more common than in

the North, and the custom still prevails to a considerable extent. And

it is worthy of remark that while the white race were beginning to

abandon the custom of travelling on horseback, the Indians of the Far

West were capturing the mustang of the Prairies, and making him their

obedient and useful servant, until, at the present time, the wealth of

the Prairie tribes is estimated by the number of their horses; and to

travel one or two thousand miles for the purpose of capturing a herd of

them from their enemies is deemed a rare exploit, and a test of superior

business capacity. In the good old saddle-bag days, to which we have

alluded, the horse was man’s companion and friend, but in these more

rapid and heartless times he is only a servant, and when too old to be

of further use, is turned out on the road-side to die.

The next, and by far the most delightful and romantic era of American

locomotion was that of mail or stage-coach travelling; one of the first

lines of stages in this country having been established in 1730, between

New York and Philadelphia, devoting a fortnight to the round trip. And

it was at this time that a foot-post was established between New York

and Albany. In 1766 the trip to Philadelphia was reduced to five days,

when there were four relays of horses, and the fare was twenty shillings

through. A daily line was established in 1820. Upon this subject we have

often thought that a charming book might be written. At what particular

time the first coach was set up in this country we are unable to state,

but our own recollections are of that period when the custom was quite

universal and in the full tide of successful operation. The leading

arteries of travel ran from Boston to Albany; from that city to Buffalo,

which route was made famous by the opposing Pilot and Eagle lines; and

there was a westward continuation to Detroit, Chicago, and St. Louis;

there was also an important route from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh, the

turnpike between those cities having been the first, in point of time

and magnitude, made in this country; another from Baltimore and

Washington, which intersected at Frederick, and ran over the celebrated

Cumberland turnpike to Wheeling; another still in Virginia, running

along the base of the Blue Ridge to Tennessee; several extensive and

admirable routes through Kentucky and Tennessee; a great Southern line,

leading from Washington to Montgomery, in Alabama; and, of course, a

very busy and crowded route between Washington and New York. But the

most splendid and profitable of all was the Cumberland or National Road.

The mail-coaches were drawn by six horses; taverns, with jolly

landlords, were closely scattered along its entire line; and

freight-wagons, laden with tons of merchandise, and drawn by twelve

horses, and endless droves of cattle, combined to give variety to the

scenes of excitement that were perpetually transpiring along the route.

As the entire extent of this line of travel was from Washington to

Wheeling, the variety of scenery was endless, and much of it very grand,

but the chief charms lay west of Cumberland. And the famous men who

travelled regularly over this route were numerous; among them Jackson

and Clay, Benton and Crockett, Harrison and Taylor—now all at rest

after their journeys of life. Nor was there any scarcity of rival lines

of coaches, and rival taverns, with all the incidents growing out of

competition. It was originally intended to extend this road to St.

Louis, but the scheme was never carried out; and its chief advocate in

Congress was Henry Clay—which fact is commemorated on a monument now

standing near Wheeling. That part of the road extending from Cumberland

to Washington and Baltimore was built at the expense of the banks of

Maryland, and at one time brought in a revenue of twenty per cent. Along

the line of this great turnpike, now idle and desolate, may occasionally

be found an “old stager” who delights to talk about the old stage-coach

times,—how they used to go their twelve miles per hour; what fun they

sometimes witnessed at the toll-gates; how the landlords of rival

taverns struggled to outdo each other in their tables; how thirty

coaches often passed a given point in a single day; what escapes were

made from robbers in the “Shades of Death;” how the different lines

known as the “June Bug,” the “Landlords,” and the “Good Intent,” all

made “lots of money;” and how the business of the road came to an end

about the year 1852, since which time the snakes and the lizards have

had quiet possession of the stone bridges everywhere. The vehicle in

best repute was that known as the Troy or Concord coach, holding nine

passengers inside, with four or five on the outside, without crowding,

and drawn by four or six horses. But there were other styles also, made

at Trenton, New Jersey, and in Cumberland. The relays generally were

from ten to fifteen miles apart, and the speed varied, according to the

roads, from seven to ten miles per hour. When travellers were in a hurry

they took the regular mail-coach, which went directly through without

stopping at night, but the majority of people preferred the extra or

passenger coaches, whose drivers were not afraid of the Post-Office

Department, and always tarried over-night at certain localities. For

example, it was customary for all the coaches to leave Washington at

nine o’clock in the morning; but, while the mail was bound to arrive in

New York on the following evening, the passengers who had seats in the

extra coaches enjoyed a night’s rest both in Baltimore and Philadelphia,

and did not reach New York until the close of the third day. In 1824 a

very perfectly organised line of coaches ran between Boston and

Portland, passing through Concord, New Hampshire, which place afterwards

became so famous for its admirable coach-making establishments. During

the stage-coach era the competition which sometimes prevailed was only

equalled by the immense enterprise manifested by the proprietors. The

sums of money expended in the business were frequently enormous, and

those particular companies or individual men who enjoyed the patronage

of the Government seldom failed in making money. A mail-contractor of

the first class was a kind of nabob in the land, and the people subject

to his will, or anxious to secure his patronage, were numbered by the

thousand. First came the army of drivers or coachmen, then the stablemen

and tavern-keepers, the horse-dealers and the farmers, with their grain

and forage, as well as the coach-builders. If the machinery of this mode

of travelling was so extensive as to make the leading manager of the

whole enterprise a kind of potentate, it is also true that the mental

satisfaction and comfort attending even a long journey were all that

could be reasonably desired. The stage-coach brought men in close

contact, often kept them together until they were well acquainted, and

inaugurated many lasting friendships. In no other kind of vehicle do we

remember to have seen such beautiful girls and noble matrons, such wise

and good old men, and such jolly cosmopolites; and some of the best

stories, the most charming bits of personal history, and the most

wonderful adventures that we have heard, were related to us in a coach.

Who that has ever journeyed in one of them, with the mail, over a

pleasant route, can forget the sights and sounds and incidents of the

way? First came the gentle “tapping at your chamber door,” long before

the break of an autumnal day, the breakfast by candle-light, the

friendly words at parting, the strapping of your trunk in the boot, and

then the tumble into the huge vehicle, with its impatient horses and its

bustling driver. With the approach of daylight came the scrutinising

looks and careful words between the passengers. The turnpike, perhaps,

is lined with cultivated farms; and when the horses are being watered,

you have a little chat with a sturdy yeoman. When you approach a

village, the coachman gives an extra flourish to his whip, and, driving

directly through its principal street, comes to a halt, with a grand

flourish, before the tavern, and during the ten or fifteen minutes

occupied by the postmaster in changing the mail, you have a chance to

become acquainted with a score or two of the worthy villagers; another

drive, another village, and then comes the dinner, the superb dinner,

sumptuous and hot, with the smiling landlord wielding the carving-knife,

like a very prince of good fellows. To those who knew them in the olden

times, what memories cluster about the old stage taverns! Every village

had one of them, with gambrel roof, dormer window, capacious stoop, with

chairs where loungers congregated, and travellers waited for the mail.

And with what good things are they associated! According to location,

they were famous for broiled shad or trout, johnny-cakes and waffles,

tender loin steaks, broiled chickens, buckwheat cakes and maple syrup,

venison, roasted turkeys, fruits of many kinds, and such bread as we

seldom see in these latter days. But time is speeding. Off again, and

then for a few hours the houses and the trees and the fields pass you

like the pictures of a dream, the rolling of the wheels becomes a kind

of murmur in your ear, the driver blows his horn to warn the stablemen

at the next station of his approach, but to you it is an uncertain

sound; and after another brief halt, away you go again—now wide

awake—down through a beautiful valley, gleaming in the evening

sunshine; at twilight you pass through a lonely forest, and become

thoughtful; then comes the supper, with the luxuries peculiar to the

locality; and during the long night which follows you are lulled to

sleep by the trotting of the horses, the rolling of the wheels, and the

tinkling of the harness, all melted into a continuous and soothing

sound. On the approach of day you wake, and behold all around you is a

wilderness of mountains, perhaps the Alleghanies.

Rough business now lies before you, and when you arrive at the

breakfasting place, the new coachman (several of whose predecessors,

during the night, you have not even seen) seems not to be in any

particular hurry, and you have ample time to enjoy a refreshing wash and

a quiet meal. The landlord points to the lowering clouds along the

mountains, and shakes his head; the driver’s horn has sounded for the

last time, and all the passengers are in their seats; a crack of the

whip, and the mail is on its winding way over the mountains. It is now

all a painful ascent, and the horses frequently stop to regain their

breath; upwards again, and you hear the driver shouting to some one,

when you look out and behold a dead bear or a deer hanging across the

back of a rough pony, with a hunter leading him, and carrying a rifle,

followed by a brace of dogs; onward, and upward still, picking up fresh

horses at each relay, and a storm of rain sweeps over the mountains, and

you hear the roaring of waterfalls in the deep and dark ravines; the

clouds disappear, and you ever and anon catch glimpses, over the tops of

the trees, of the distant and apparently level country where you spent

the preceding day; and one pull more, when, in the midst of a

snow-storm, you reach the door of a rude tavern just below the summit of

the mountain. Here, where silence and solitude would seem to reign, your

ears are startled by much shouting and the lowing of many cattle, and

you escape from the coach to find an immense herd, driven by a score of

stalwart men on horseback, on their way to an Eastern market, from the

rich farming lands of the West. Another dinner, with venison and quail;

a fresh supply of horses; and now for a downward drive towards the

western horizon. The brakes are applied to the wheels, and the horses

have it all their own way; the forest trees grow larger as you descend,

and anon, as the coach groans in every fibre while sweeping past a

terrible precipice, the boldest traveller holds his breath; onward and

downward, and the sky is clearing away; fresh horses and another

glorious stampede; and at sunset, again, you have reached a wide and

peaceful valley, watered by one of the tributaries of the Ohio. Such,

good reader, is a fragment from the “times of the days of old,” when the

American mail-coach was in its prime.

The transition from the subject of coaching to that of the postal

service is inevitable, and here are a few suggestive facts:—The first

post route established by the Government, in the last century, extended

from Passamoquoddy, in Massachusetts, to St. Mary in Florida, at which

time there was no post-office in what is now the city of Washington. The

total number of actual and prospective post-offices at that time was

four hundred; in 1868 they numbered about sixty thousand; and while the

distance which was formerly compassed by the service was twelve thousand

miles, the routes of to-day (1879) measure not less than three hundred

thousand miles.

During the stage-coach era, in those parts of the country where the

winters were long and the snow abundant, a great deal of travelling was

performed in sleighs. Indeed, the custom is still prevalent in all the

States bordering on the river St. Lawrence and the Great Lakes. But,

when the French element prevailed at the western extremity of Lake Erie

and on the Detroit river, travelling on the ice was a universal custom.

The smooth and glassy surface was preferred to that which was covered

with snow; driving fiery horses, before the cariole, on those frozen

plains, required a peculiar dexterity, in which the Canadian French

excelled; and the racing contests between famous pacers created much

excitement, and were earnestly discussed even in Montreal and Quebec.

But those picturesque and exciting scenes have disappeared from our

borders, and in their perfection can now only be witnessed in the

interior of Canada. In the way of sleigh-riding carnivals, however,

there is not a spot in the country that can be matched with the city of

New York, when the snow and the weather are happily combined.

For about ten years after the opening of the Hudson and Erie Canal, in

1825, the man who had not voyaged upon those tranquil waters was

considered a decided home body; and when the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal,

as well as those of Pennsylvania, were in successful operation, the

number of people who annually passed over these great lines of travel

was truly enormous. Boats, fitted up in elegant style for the

accommodation of passengers, were for a time abundant on all these

canals, but mostly so on the Hudson and Erie. Packet lines were

established, bearing all sorts of popular names; and they not only

competed with each other for the public patronage, but they even tried

to outdo the coaches of the United States mail. They employed the best

of horses, and sometimes attained the speed of six miles per hour; and

so long as the novelty lasted, this mode of travelling was really

enjoyable; but when the victim of misplaced confidence had gone a

hundred miles from the Hudson, and then saw, by his card, that he had

263 additional miles to travel in this manner, before he could catch a

glimpse of Lake Erie, his emotions became really heartrending. If not

too poor to quit the packet at the very next town, and take a seat in

the coach, he dreaded the thought of being laughed at for want of pluck,

and so continued to suffer and be strong. And then, if accustomed to the

study of human nature, including himself, he must have been astounded at

the changes in his own thoughts and feelings, which, as he progressed

towards the setting sun and his latter end, were being made by his life

on the Canal. At first the peaceful scenery was delightful, now it was a

bore; then the regularity of the meals was just his idea of system, now

the orders from the kitchen and their horrible sameness made him sick

almost unto death. During his “first night out” he was not much crowded,

and had a charming sleep, but subsequently the mosquitoes drove him to

the verge of despair. After passing some half-dozen locks, he was ready

to indite a treatise for the Tredgold series on human ingenuity, but by

the time he had reached the centre of Lockport, he felt very much like

setting the town on fire, and playing Guy Fawkes among the stony marvels

of science. When he first heard the captain shouting aloud, “Look out

for the bridge!” and saw the passengers, who were on deck, bowing

themselves like Moslem worshippers, he thought it all very jolly; but

when he afterwards saw a poor old man instantly killed by the cruel

timbers of a bridge, he doubted whether De Witt Clinton would really

prove to be a benefactor to the race. The horses, which in the East he

thought so finely formed and so fiery, in the West, though all of the

same blood, looked to him like miserable mongrels. And if, on leaving

Troy, he was troubled with the pangs of home-sickness, on arriving at

Buffalo he probably declared to his confidential friend that if he could

never revisit his early home without going by the Canal, he was bound to

spend the balance of his days as a buckeye, a hoosier, or wolverine. But

the Canal, as a highway for American travellers, has long since ceased

to be respected, although as a servant of Commerce it still continues to

exert an all-powerful influence.

And now for a “little dash” in the “steamboat business,” from which, it

is to be hoped, we may emerge with less damage than has been the case

with many speculators in that line. To estimate the steamboat tonnage of

this country is, for us, out of the question, and to speak of the

importance of steamboats to the people would be mere folly. Like birds,

they are found floating on every river and every lake between the

Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans; and in describing them for the benefit

of those who have not knocked about the country as we have, we must

imitate the ornithologist, and not only gather them into classes, but

designate their localities. And as Robert Fulton started his first

steamboat on the Hudson, it is quite proper that we should begin there.

The passenger boats on the Hudson river, running between New York and

Albany, were long unsurpassed for elegance, comfort, and speed. They

were appropriately called floating palaces. Since the opening of the

Hudson River Railroad their glory has in a measure departed, but some of

them, especially the night boats, maintain their ancient grandeur. By

taking the night boat the traveller going north has an opportunity of

seeing some of the best scenery on the river, and saves time, but to the

stranger a voyage to the head of navigation by daylight, on a pleasant

day, when the Palisades, the Highlands, and the Catskill Mountains are

in their glory, must always be an event never to be forgotten. These

boats run only during the vernal seasons, and the number of passengers

which they have been known to carry in the busy months is simply

amazing. The steamboats which at the present time are in greatest repute

are those which navigate Long Island Sound. They are very large, built

to weather a heavy sea, run only at night, but throughout the year carry

large quantities of freight, and are so arranged as to afford the

greatest comfort to a large number of passengers; and the number that

they do carry is a constant subject of remark. Two of the boats, if not

more, now running on these waters are acknowledged to be the swiftest,

most luxurious, and magnificent in the world. The boats which ply

between Boston and Portland, and venture into the Bay of Fundy, are a

cross between the steamboat and ocean steamer, and the latter do not

come within the plan of this paper. The same causes which have

interfered with the steamboat business on the Hudson river, viz., hard

winters and the railroads, have nearly driven from the great lakes the

better class of passenger steamboats. There was a time, say between 1835

and 1845, when the pleasure of steamboat travelling on Lakes Ontario,

Erie, Huron, and Michigan, was something unique. The boats were large,

furnished after a princely fashion, and, from the time you left Buffalo

for Detroit or Chicago, it verily seemed as if the chief end of man was

to fare sumptuously every day, listen to a continuous strain of music,

and to drive dull care away by having a good time generally. The first

steamboat that navigated Lake Erie was called the _Walk-in-the-Water_,

after an Indian chief, and she made the passage from Buffalo Creek to

Detroit in forty-eight hours.

During the same period of time, but extending nearer to the present,

Cincinnati, St. Louis, and New Orleans were competing with each other in

launching their floating palaces in the valley of the Mississippi. In

their outward appearance these Southern vessels were destitute of the

graceful lines and other adornments which characterised the Northern

steamboats already mentioned, and the curious method of carrying their

boilers on deck gave them a repulsive aspect; but their interior

arrangements were usually as brilliant as painting and gilding and

velvet could make them. The immense distances they were obliged to

compass, and the length of time travellers were compelled to spend upon

them, rendered a series of entertainments necessary; and indeed a voyage

from New Orleans to any of the up-river cities was a continuous

jollification. The happy travellers on Lake Erie were indifferent to the

shallow waters which abounded there, nor did they cast a thought upon

the dangers of explosion from high-pressure boilers. On the Mississippi

they were equally unconcerned about the dangers of steam, as well as

those resulting from sawyers and snags. With regard to the smaller

steamboats of the country, we have only to repeat that there is hardly a

river in the Union upon which they are not found. Many in the South are

propelled by one large wheel located in the stern; others, in the North,

draw so little water as to be almost capable of crossing a place that is

only a little damp. The part they have taken in developing the resources

of our country, and in helping her through the fiery trials of the

rebellion, cannot be too highly appreciated.

In our cogitations thus far we have been looking at Brother Jonathan

while yet in his youth, travelling about the country to visit his

friends, or attend to his business affairs, very much like a man of

elegant leisure; but having now attained the period of robust manhood,

he has latterly been girding himself for a new career of usefulness and

honour. When the Yankee, in 1827, built a crude railway, for the purpose

of conveying granite from Quincy to Bunker Hill, he fixed his mind on

the transaction and thought of the future. He began at once to calculate

and devise, as if certain that something new in the way of travelling

would yet be developed under the sun. He waited patiently for a few

years, and then went to work in good earnest to carry out his plans for

uniting his country with bands of iron. He filled up valleys and

levelled mountains, and went on prospering in his work. When a certain

man named Whitney travelled about the country, telling the people that

they should build a railway to connect the Atlantic with the Pacific

Oceans, Brother Jonathan was disposed to laugh; and yet in his serious

moments he pondered on the thought, and to-day he has under his control

the greatest network of railways on the face of the globe, all guarded

by sentinels that hold the lightning in their hands, and has every

reason to believe that in another year or two he will be able to ticket

his friends entirely across the continent between the two Sundays of a

summer day. Not all the arts of arithmetic, nor all the triangulations

on the largest map, can give us a realising sense of the stupendous

power and influence of the American railway system. We can only

approximate to the full idea, perhaps, by passing in review the doings

of the locomotive during the single midnight moment that we are penning

this line. At the mouth of the Susquehannah there is a groaning sound in

the air, as the Owl train from Washington to New York is crossing the

great bridge; in the South another train is sweeping, in moody silence,

through the great interminable swamps; in the North the fiery

locomotive, leaping and screaming as if in rage, is fighting its way

through the snow and the blinding storm; here and there and everywhere,

among the wildest mountains, thousands of people are sweetly sleeping in

comfortable seats or berths, while travelling with the speed of the

wind; trains from the East, while passing through frightful tunnels, or

along the peaceful homes of our yeomanry, are saluting the trains from

the West; and the wild Indian, while sleeping in his camp at the base of

the Rocky Mountains, hears a sound like the moaning of the wind among

the pines, and, starting to his feet, beholds the distant smoke of a

locomotive and its serpent-like train outstripping the mustang and the

buffalo, as it sweeps onward to the more remote West.

           LOUIS GAMACHE OF ANTICOSTI.

Lonely and desolate are the shores of Anticosti. In winter they are

blocked up with ice and whitened with snow, and in summer almost

continually enveloped in fogs. To all mariners who have occasion to sail

the Gulf of St. Lawrence they are a perpetual terror, and the many

shipwrecks occurring there have given to the island a mournful

celebrity. Three lighthouses, lighted from March to December, and two

provision stations, are the only localities on the island where those

who may have escaped a watery grave can obtain succour from famine and

cold, and the most noted of these is the Bay of Gamache. It is about

five miles in circumference, the only really secure harbour in the

region, and derives its name from the strange man who there first made

himself a home. From Quebec to Gaspe, from Gaspe to Pictou, not a name,

for many years, was better known, and the manifold stories picked up by

the writer (during his Canadian and New Brunswick wanderings) respecting

this man would fill a volume. They were extravagant, made up of fact and

fiction, representing him as a kind of ancient mariner, a pirate, a

being half-savage and half-ogre, and enjoying the special protection of

Satan himself. But the simple story of his actual life, well worth

recording, is as follows:—

Louis Oliver Gamache was born in Lower Canada in 1790. When a mere boy

he left home and obtained a sailor’s berth on board an English frigate,

in which capacity he spent about twenty years of his life, roaming over

the entire world. On his return, he found his parents dead and himself

friendless and poor. Having strayed into the little port of Rimouski, he

tried his hand at business and failed. Disgusted with people generally,

and somewhat so with life, he resolved to settle on the island of

Anticosti, whose lonely shores had taken his fancy captive when last

returning from his ocean wanderings. Determined as he was to spend the

balance of his days in the peaceful enjoyments of hunting, fishing, and

sailing, his sagacity led him to the bay already mentioned. He built

himself a rude cabin, and then visited the main shore to obtain a good

wife, in which effort he was successful. She was all he hoped for, but

the loneliness and cold of Anticosti were more than her nature could

bear, and she died during her first spring on the island. Summer came,

and Gamache sought for peace of mind by sailing in his schooner among

the icebergs of the north, and slaughtering the grey seal and walrus.

With the money thus made, he erected some new buildings, and gathered

about his home a few of the comforts of an ordinary farm, such as

horses, cows, and sheep. He married a second wife, with whom he spent

the seven happiest years of his life, but on returning home from one of

his winter hunts, he found her frozen to death, and his two children so

nearly famished that they soon followed their mother, and he was once

more alone. A kind of gloom now settled upon his spirit, and though

leading an active life he became misanthropic. He cared not to have any

intercourse with his fellow-men, and his only companion and confidant

was a half-breed Frenchman; but if a revenue officer, a professional

fisherman, or a party of sporting characters happened to make him a

visit, they were sure to be treated with kindness. He felt that death

had robbed him of all that he mostly cherished; and how did he know, was

his mode of reasoning, but some of his Indian neighbours would prove

treacherous, and take his own life without warning? Some band of

pirates, moreover, might hear of his forlorn condition, and sweep away

his property and murder him in cold blood. Those were impending

calamities, and something must be done for protection. Hence it was that

he resolved to adopt a series of measures that would inspire a dread of

his person and name. He fully succeeded in all his romantic efforts, and

the following are a few of the many with which his name is associated:—

On one occasion, having been wind-bound for several days, he anchored

his vessel in one of the ports of Gaspe, and making his way to the

village inn, ordered a sumptuous supper for two persons. The truth was,

he was nearly famished, and having caused his man Friday to be supplied

on board the vessel, he had determined to have a good feast, and any fun

that might follow. Before sitting down to his repast, he gave special

directions to the effect that the door of the dining-room must be

locked, and that it would be dangerous to have him disturbed. He

devoured nearly everything on the table, and finally falling into a deep

sleep, did not awake until the next morning. The host and some of his

inquisitive neighbours were moving about soon after daybreak, and a

number of them declared that they had heard some mysterious noises

during the night, and when the unknown guest stepped out of the

dining-room into the sunshine, and while paying his bill with American

gold talked incoherently about the gentleman in black, the people who

hung about the house were amazed; but when the landlord told them of the

empty plates and platters, and they saw the stranger embark without

uttering a word, they were all confounded, and felt certain that the

devil and an intimate friend had visited their town.

At one time while spending a day or two in Quebec, an officer of the law

boarded the schooner of our hero for the purpose of arresting him for

debt. Gamache suspected what was in the wind, and as the autumn was far

advanced, and he was prepared to leave for the Gulf, he told the officer

that the captain would soon be on board, and suggested a glass of wine

in the cabin below by way of killing time. The wine was good, and the

officer concluded that he would call again to see the captain, as his

business was of a private nature, but when he ascended to the deck he

found himself a voyager on the St. Lawrence, and in the custody of his

intended prisoner. His loud storming and deep curses were of no avail,

for he was compelled to visit the island of Anticosti, where he spent

the entire winter feasting upon the fat of the land as well as of the

sea. In the spring, with a good supply of wine, and the money for his

claim, he took passage in a fishing vessel and returned, a “wiser and

better man,” to Quebec and the bosom of his disconsolate family.

Even the officers of the Hudson Bay Company were occasionally called

upon to measure their skill with the wit of our friend Gamache. He would

barter with the Indians on the Labrador coast, although he knew that the

consequences of being captured might be serious. Business had been brisk

with him, and when on a quiet summer afternoon he was about leaving a

little harbour on the forbidden coast, he was discovered by an armed

vessel, which immediately started in pursuit. Night came, and Gamache

found refuge in the harbour of Mingan. When the morning light appeared

his enemy was in the offing. Another chase ensued, long and tedious, and

night again settled upon the waters. And then it was that a rude raft

was made and launched, covered with a few tar-barrels, and the bright

flame which soon illumined the ocean, directly in the course of the

frigate, convinced its officers that the runaway had,

conscience-stricken, gone to the bottom of the sea. But a better fate

awaited him, for he spent the subsequent night in his own bed at the Bay

of Gamache.

On one occasion, when our hero happened to be left entirely alone at his

house, he saw a stalwart Indian disembark from his canoe, and, with a

bottle in his hand, march directly for his dwelling. The movements of

the savage, his fondness for liquor, and his well-known character for

fighting, portended trouble. As he approached, Gamache planted himself

at the threshold of his castle, rifle in hand, and exclaimed, “One step

more, and I will fire!” The step was taken, but it was the last, for a

bullet shattered the thigh-bone of the savage. Thus reduced to

helplessness, he asked for quarter, and was gratified. Gamache carried

him into the house, placed him on a bed, doctored his wound, and took

every care of him, until the damaged leg was restored; and then loading

the Indian with provisions, escorted him to his canoe with this parting

benediction, “When next you hear that Gamache is alone, and attempt to

give him trouble, he will send a bullet through your head; and now

begone!” That lesson had its legitimate effect upon the entire tribe of

Anticosti Indians.

One more incident touching the Wizard of Anticosti is to this effect. A

young pilot had been driven by stress of weather into the Bay of

Gamache. He had heard much of the supposed freebooter, and nothing but a

desperate state of things would have induced him to seek refuge in that

particular bay. A short time after he had dropped anchor, Gamache came

out in a small boat and invited the pilot to his house. Most reluctantly

was the invitation accepted, but a manifestation of courage was deemed

necessary. When the guest entered the dwelling and saw the walls of each

room completely covered with guns, pistols, hatchets, cutlasses, and

harpoons, his fears were excited to the highest degree. Gamache observed

all this, but only enjoyed the stranger’s consternation. A smoking

supper was spread upon the table, but even the mooselip and the beaver’s

tail were only enjoyed by one of the party—the nerves of the other

quivered with excitement, and his thoughts were bent upon the tale that

would be told respecting his fate. He made a display of gaiety; when the

evening was waxing late, he arose to depart, and with manifold

expressions of thankfulness offered his hand to the host. “No, no! my

friend,” said Gamache, “you must not leave here; the sea is rough, and

the night is cold and wet, and you cannot leave the bay. I have a

comfortable bed up-stairs, and to-morrow you may go—if still alive.”

The last words sounded like a knell, and up into the chamber of death,

as he supposed, ascended the pilot. “You may sleep,” continued Gamache,

as he handed his guest a lamp, “as long and soundly as you can; your bed

is soft, for it is made of the down of birds I myself have killed, for I

am a good shot, and never miss my game.” For a while the pilot-guest

found it impossible to quiet his nerves or to obtain any sleep; but

nature finally gave way and he fell into a doze, which was anything but

refreshing. As the clock struck twelve he was startled by a noise, and

on opening his eyes, there stood Gamache by the bed-side with a candle

in one hand and a gun in the other. “I see you are awake,” said he, “but

why so very pale? You have heard, undoubtedly, that I am in the habit of

murdering everybody who tarries in my house, and”—hanging the gun upon

two wooden pegs—“I have come to give you a settler for the night.” With

this remark he displayed a bottle of brandy and a tumbler, and after

drinking the health of the pilot, handed him the glass, and continued:

“There, take a good pull, it will make you sleep soundly, and if Gamache

comes to attack you during the night, you can defend yourself with the

loaded gun hanging over your head.” And thus the joke ended. When

morning came the storm had disappeared, and the pilot and his host were

quite as happy as the day was bright.

And thus was it, as the mood came upon him, that Gamache endeavoured to

relieve the monotony of his self-inflicted exile. His afflictions seemed

to have changed his character; though certainly without guile, a kind of

passion for doing out-of-the-way things followed him to the close of his

life, and gave him the unenviable reputation he possessed. But he died

in 1854 from the effects of exposure to the cold, and the pleasant bay

which bears his name is about the only memorial he has left behind.

And now for a few authentic particulars respecting the history and

general character of the island of Anticosti, as developed by recent

explorations. It was discovered by Jacques Cartier in 1534, and named by

him “Assomption;” in 1542 the pilot Jean Alphonse called it “Ascension

Island;” and by the Indians it was called Naticostec, from one of its

own rivers, which name the French transformed into Anticosti. The island

originally formed a part of Labrador; it was conceded in 1680 to Louis

Joliet for his services in discovering the Mississippi river, and he

lived upon it with his family while pursuing the fur trade: it was

confiscated by the British when they came into power, and was re-annexed

to Canada in 1825; but in 1860 became the private property of two

families residing in Canada and England. It is about one hundred and

twenty miles long by thirty wide, and its estimated area is two million

five hundred acres. A large part of its coast has a belt of limestone

reefs, that are dry when the tide is low. The southern shore is

generally low, and while near the water there is a dense and

impenetrable mass of drifted trees and timber, extending for many miles,

the immediate interior of the island has a peat plain, two miles wide

and eighty miles in length, which is said to be the most extensive one

in Canada. On the northern shore there are hills and cliffs that attain

an elevation of four or five hundred feet,—a mountain named Macastey

being a conspicuous object from a great distance, while many of the

cliffs, as they loom above the thundering surf, are exceedingly grand

and picturesque. The forest land is abundant, consisting of spruce,

pine, birch, and fir; but the trees are commonly small, and even

dwarfish, and, according to Bayfield, the stunted spruce trees are so

closely together in some places, that a man may walk for a considerable

distance on their summits! Some of the trees, however, reach the height

of eighty feet. Very much of its soil is fertile and susceptible of

cultivation. The only attempts at cultivation that have been made, and

these have been mostly futile, are at the Bay of Gamache and Fox Bay,

and at the lighthouses on South West Point, West End, and Heath Point.

The leading agricultural productions are potatoes, oats, and barley;

fruit-growing trees and shrubs are quite plentiful, but one of the most

valuable natural productions is a kind of wild pea growing along the

shores of the ocean. The principal rivers are the Salmon, the Jupiter,

the Otter, the Pavilion, the Fox, and the Chaloupe; and all the streams

as well as the lakes, which are numerous, are said to swarm with salmon,

salmon trout, and trout; and the wild animals are the bear, the black,

red, and silver fox, and the marten. In the bays and more sheltered

parts of the coast seals are extremely abundant. Besides the harbour

named for Gamache, but originally called Ellis Bay, there is a harbour

at Fox Bay, but neither of them would shelter vessels of more than five

hundred tons burthen. The total population of the island is only about

one hundred. But desolate and inhospitable as Anticosti is now, the time

should come, and probably will come, when its natural resources will be

developed for the benefit of an extensive maritime population.

             FOREST RECOLLECTIONS.

Having been born on the very margin of the continuous woods, the dear

old woods, and been somewhat of a wanderer among them in my earlier and

later years, I propose to have a quiet talk about them with those who

can appreciate their manifold influences. While endeavouring to

communicate a certain amount of information, I shall speak more as a

lover of nature and the picturesque than as a student of science. The

subject is fruitful in more senses than one, and as the forests of the

United States, in their variety and extent, are unsurpassed by those of

any other country, it will be my own fault if I cannot entertain my

readers for a short time with a few personal recollections. Before

proceeding, however, a single remark on the woodlands of the country in

regard to growth may be acceptable. The woody species of our flora

number about eight hundred; of these, three hundred grow to the size of

trees, one hundred and twenty attain a considerable size, twenty reach

the height of one hundred feet, twelve over two hundred feet, and five

or six about three hundred feet. The forests of the Far West are almost

entirely coniferous; and the hard-wood forests are chiefly found in the

central portions of the United States.

I begin my remarks with the pine forests of Maine. Their extent can only

be realised by fixing the mind upon the whole northern half of the

State, which they cover with their sombre green, and by remembering the

fact that no less than four splendid rivers have their birth in this

great wilderness—the St Croix, the Penobscot, the Kennebec, and the

Androscoggin. According to such figures as I have been able to collect,

the number of saw-mills and other lumbering machines in operation on the

above rivers, just before the rebellion, was nearly nine hundred, the

number of men employed about seventeen thousand, and of horses and oxen

perhaps ten thousand; while the towns which are, to a great extent,

supported by the lumbering business are Calais, Bangor, Augusta, and

Brunswick, as well as Portland. The predominating tree in the wilderness

under consideration, as is the case in Minnesota and Wisconsin, is the

white pine, but the hemlock, the fir, and the spruce are also abundant

in all its borders. It is said that fifty years ago specimens of the

pine were found in Maine which attained the height of more than two

hundred feet, but in these times it is but seldom that we find a tree

exceeding one hundred and fifty feet in length. The grand old monarchs

of the land would seem to have perished with grief on beholding the

ravages of man; for it is to the selfishness of this superior animal

that so many portions of our country are to-day without the beautiful

and useful streams which they once possessed. But there is an

aristocracy existing in these woods at the present day, for it has been

observed that there are different classes of trees—families of nobility

clustering together in one place—while the more plebeian varieties

congregate in communities by themselves. Were it not for the changing

seasons and its living creatures, the monotony of this forest scenery

would be well-nigh unbearable; but summer fills every sunny nook with

its bright flowers, and winter scatters everywhere the fantastic

creations of the frost and snow. It is in these solitudes that the bold

and hardy Penobscot Indian hunter tracks the moose and the deer, fights

the bear in his den, decoys the grey wolf, and sets his traps for the

wild cat and mink, the marten, the sable, and the beaver; and if, in the

most genial seasons, there should be found a scarcity of birds, you can

never fail to hear the plaintive whistle of the Canada-bird, or

_Muscicapa_ of scientific dreamers. In the valley of the Potomac this

favourite bird of ours is the very first harbinger of spring, coming

from the South even before the blue-bird; and when heard there late in

autumn, you may be sure that winter has asserted his empire on the

Northern frontiers. I have heard it in the pine forests of Florida,

among the mountains of Carolina and Tennessee, along the glorious rivers

of New Brunswick, Canada, and a part of Labrador, but never with more

pleasure than in the forests of Maine. When away from home, it always

carries us back in fancy to the region where our lot is cast, and to our

friends; and when at home it reminds us of far-off places and other

friends linked with happy recollections. Its whole life, it seems to us,

is devoted to singing, in a kind of monotone, about the joys of the

wilderness.

Of permanent human inhabitants the forests of Maine can boast of but a

small supply; but for about nine months in the year the hardy lumbermen,

consisting of explorers and choppers, of swampers or road-cutters and

teamsters, make their dim, interminable aisles alive and cheery with

their presence and manifold employments. In the autumn, small parties,

equipped like trappers, go up the rivers in canoes and locate the lands

which are to be grappled with in winter; and when winter comes the great

majority, with their oxen and axes, their salt pork and flour, migrate

to the selected grounds, and after housing themselves and their cattle

in cabins half-covered with snow, they proceed to the work of

extermination; and when the spring arrives, down to the tributary

streams do they drag their logs; and when the first great thaw arrives,

away they go down the larger rivers, driving the produce of their toil

through lakes and lakelets and over waterfalls, with many a wild and

wayward shout, until they reach the “booms” where they would be; and

then for home and their happy families nearer the sea. All this for

money? Most true. But where will you find better specimens of true

manhood than among these lumbermen? And as for poetry and romance, where

can we find their equal among the labourers for hire in any land but

ours? Fancy the heart-bursts of true patriotism and the wild stories

told by the side of their watch fires: the hoot of the great white owl

at midnight in those dim solitudes; the white moonlight on the still

whiter snow; the ringing cadences of the frost; the wolf prowling for

food around the sleeping camps; the cave-like forest pictured against

the cold blue sky; the terrible storms of sleet and hail; and then the

thousand dreams of wives and children sleeping in their distant and

peaceful homes.

The continuousness of the Maine woods, taken in connection with their

extent, is one of their most impressive features. Unless there were

something to relieve their monotony, a sensitive man could never have

journeyed from one extremity to another without becoming a

personification of gloom; but behold with what exquisite taste and skill

Nature interposes her relief! She plants old Moosehead near the centre

of the great forest, and scatters a thousand smaller gems of purest

water on every side; bids a few mountain peaks rise up as watch-towers

against the northern sky; sends the most beautiful rivers like flashes

of light in every direction singing to the sea; and in a few localities

spreads out those wonderful fields which have been denominated “oceans

of moss,” sometimes several feet in thickness, and in one instance

covering a space of many miles. But more than this: around the lakes and

along the water-courses are permitted to grow as great a variety of the

more delicate and graceful trees as the climate will allow, with shrubs

and vines and flowers innumerable. All this is the workmanship of

Nature; but it is man who marks the earth with ruin, and, not content

with robbing the old forests of their giant treasures, he sometimes sets

them on fire for his amusement or by accident, and thus come into

existence the desolate burnt districts to take the places of trees once

valuable and grand and beautiful.

The last object that the wide-awake tourist beholds on leaving the great

wilderness of Maine is Mount Katahdin; and that reminds us of the

mountain forests of the Northern and Southern States. The representative

peaks of the North are Katahdin, Mount Washington, the Camel’s Hump,

Tahawus, and High Peak; and around all these are to be found the hemlock

and spruce, the cedar and fir, the maple, the ash, the elm, and the

birch, in such numbers and variety and beauty as to bewilder the mind.

The declivities up which travellers climb oftentimes frown upon them as

if to warn them of coming danger, but the tough and rugged trees plant

their roots in the rocky fissures and hold on with heroic fortitude; nor

do they cease their persevering efforts, while apparently changing

places at each zone, until, robbed of their luxuriance, and reduced to

mere bushes by the savage winds and by the cold, they peep out from

their hiding-places only to behold the stupendous fields of granite

desolation, thousands of feet above the sea, shrouded in fogs or bounded

by the sky. Inaccessible, for the most part, as are these Northern

forests, the enterprise of man has been such as to penetrate their

hidden depths for his advantage, and plunder them of their wealth. In

ancient times a man was famous according as he had lifted up axes upon

the thick trees, but in this country we have had more than our share of

these famous citizens. In Maine, selfish man robs them of their stately

leaders; in New Hampshire, he builds fairy-like palaces, and invites the

world to come there and be happy; in Vermont, he gashes the maple trees

and compels them to yield up, for his enjoyment, the sweetness of their

lives; and in New York, he hammers out of their mountain sides, in their

lonely retreats, the valuable iron ore, and meanly strips the hemlock of

its shaggy bark, and leaves it to perish ingloriously upon the hills.

Passing from the North to the South, we behold in fancy, looming against

warmer skies, the magnificent domes of Black Mountain, Trail Mountain,

the Roan, the Grandfather, and the Smoky Mountains. In the forests of

this alpine land, the yellow pine and the chestnut oak contend for the

supremacy, but as they are not commonly matted together by any

undergrowth, they gain in cathedral-like effects where they lose in real

grandeur. Like the men of an army, they ascend the gently-sloping

mountain sides in regular order, but, unlike their Northern brothers,

they have no fondness for the airy summits. And it is here that the

rhododendron and the kalmia display their elegant flowers in the

greatest perfection, and the sweet-scented shrub fills the air with its

strawberry perfume. Throughout the length and breadth of these forests,

cattle graze unmolested all the year round, and as the summits of the

mountains are usually covered with waving grass or sward, the herdsmen

upon horses, with immense droves of cattle, as sometimes pictured

against the illimitable distance or the sky, produce an effect grand and

beautiful beyond compare.

If the moose and the wolf and the bear stumble along the Northern

mountains, here we have the red deer, faring sumptuously in parks fresh

from the hand of Nature; and in laurel thickets that remind us of the

jungles of the East, we have the great red panther in his very prime.

If, in the North, the sad wild note of the loon, as he floats

hermit-like on his native lake, “searches through the listening

wilderness,” here, in the South, on the mountains and in the valleys, we

have the singing of the mocking-bird, that “glorious mocker of the

world.” Surmount the forests of the North, and you may look down upon

beautiful lakes without number, and hear the roaring of many waterfalls;

do the same in the South, and you will, by way of compensation, enjoy a

more genial climate and the spectacle of many rivers flowing gradually

and solemnly, to all appearance, to the sky, but in reality to the

Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico.

As something gathered from the past, I now propose to speak of the

forest of the Black Swamp. This somewhat famous locality extends towards

the south from Maumee in Ohio, a distance of twenty miles, and has a

general breadth of fifteen miles. When in its primitive condition it was

only the home of wild beasts and of reptiles, a favourite hunting-ground

for the Indian; and to the white man who first saw it, it was apparently

as impassable as the home of the lost. The trees which predominated in

this forest were two or three varieties of the oak and the ash, with

many maples, and a sprinkling of those other trees—the buckeye, the

white walnut, and poplar—peculiar to the bottom-lands of the Ohio

valley or basin of Lake Erie. The trees had their roots in a soil that

was black as ink, and to a great extent submerged in water; they grew

closely together, and rose to the height, in a solid mass, of well-nigh

one hundred and seventy feet, forming a world of solid columns that

would have put the builders of Baalbec to the blush, and joining their

tops together, by way of shutting out the sunlight and increasing the

gloom and solitude. In 1808 the Government obtained the privilege, by

treaty, from the Indians, of building a road through this section of

country, but nothing was done until 1823, when the lands were granted to

the State of Ohio on condition that it should build the road, which was

soon afterwards accomplished.

During the war of 1812 this forest became a famous hiding-place for the

hostile Indians, and was a great obstacle in the way of the American

troops; and it was then that it received the designation of the Black

Swamp. The difficulties which our troops experienced in crossing this

region—which, from the geographical location, was a necessity—were

enormous; for a hundred men to bivouac on the trunks of two or three

trees was a common occurrence; and of the pack-horses employed to carry

supplies, it has been estimated that not one-half of those that entered

the forest ever came out alive. Respecting the road that was

subsequently made here, the cost of it, in money and trouble, was very

great, and when completed it was for many years a bugbear to all

comfort-loving travellers. I passed over it in a mail-coach, on a cold

winter night more than thirty years ago, and the impressions of gloom

and desolation then made upon me by the forest have never been

forgotten. To-day, a railroad crosses the northern part of the Black

Swamp, but not one traveller in a hundred ever dreams of what it was in

the olden times.

When the Black Swamp lands were brought into market, they were taken up

almost exclusively by Germans and Hollanders. They erected their houses

immediately on the road, forming them of very heavy frames filled in

with mortar and straw, thereby affording ample protection from the cold

and from hurricanes, and each man had his sign out as a tavern-keeper;

but while the stage-coach people and travellers were chiefly attended to

by the children of the household, the fathers and mothers and big

brothers devoted all their time to chopping, girdling trees, and burning

the brushwood, and thus they toiled and toiled for many years. When they

settled there, the lands they occupied were purchased for a song, and

those residing in the hill-country not many miles away were looked upon

with envy; to-day, the lands in question are held at one hundred dollars

per acre, and are acknowledged to be unsurpassed in fertility by any

others on the globe; and handsome residences and magnificent farms have

usurped the entire region of the Black Swamp.

Leaving the borders of Lake Erie, which some early writer has compared

in general appearance with the shores of the Gulf of Mexico, let us in

fancy visit the live-oak forests of Florida. They constitute one of the

most peculiar and interesting features of the Peninsular State; and

though by no means as extensive as they formerly were, they are still

attractive and valuable. By the people of Florida they are called

“Hummocks,” abound in various parts of the State, and appear like

islands interspersed in the extensive “pine barrens.” The trees grow to

a great size, are peculiar for the number of their limbs, and for being

free from astringent acids; and having congregated into a colony, other

trees of various kinds seem to have gathered around them for protection;

and as they all stand with branches interlocked, the oaks wave their

magnificent grey mosses against the sky, while jessamines and other

vines in wonderful profusion spread themselves into fantastic festoons

and fill the surrounding air with a grateful fragrance. The birds are

also very numerous, and, vying with each other in their sweet singing,

inspire the heart of the listener with delight; and as he passes out

into the barren woods, now more barren than before, he feels that he has

had a glimpse, at least, of a scene allied to Paradise. Ever since the

business of shipbuilding was commenced in this country, the live-oak has

been sought after with great avidity, and when the American Government

acquired the territory of Florida, it took exclusive possession of the

oak forests within the boundaries of the public domain, and gave

existence to a stalwart class of men long known as “live-oakers.” In

doing this it only imitated the British Government, which, before the

Declaration of Independence, was in the habit of gathering masts from

the forests of New Hampshire. The live-oakers were invariably natives of

the Eastern or Middle States, and their business was to cut down the

trees and prepare the precious timber for the national and private

shipbuilders; and several of the huge frigates which took part in the

late rebellion had their bulwarks built of Florida oak. The live-oakers

usually spent about four months in the South, or all the winter season,

for that was the time for cutting, when the sap was down; and as they

were liberally paid for their services, they were generally able to

spend the summer in comfort with their families in the North. When at

work they lived in rude shanties, and with good flour and pork, and the

game which they found abundant everywhere, as well as a supply of

whisky, they managed to “worry” through the winter without grumbling.

Indeed, they enjoyed their free and wild life, and were proud of their

employment. Oftentimes they were wont to talk in a boastful and yet

loving and pathetic manner of the magnificent oaks that they had brought

down to the dust, many of which had battled with hurricanes long before

the name of Columbus was known. The traveller of to-day, while passing

through these forests, will be astonished to find his pathway impeded by

the great graves of the slain, which the mosses have covered with a pall

of their own, and, wondering why so much timber has been wasted, will be

told that those neglected trees had been found, when freshly cut, in a

state of incipient decay. A disease called the white rot frequently

attacked the bark and penetrated to the heart, thereby rendering the

timber useless for the building of ships. The live-oaks at present

towering in their pride are few and far between, excepting in districts

where they are quite inaccessible, and it is probably true that a larger

amount of their timber is now hoarded in our navy-yards than could be

found uncut in the whole of Florida. Occasional specimens of the true

live-oak may be discovered still standing in Lower Alabama and

Mississippi, but the only splendid grove now existing is that at

Bonniventure, near Savannah in Georgia; and it was while on my way to

visit that famous place that I sketched an isolated specimen on the

Habersham plantation, which measured 150 feet between the extremity of

its branches.

I now come to speak of the maple forests of our country. The

associations and recollections connected with them are so numerous and

interesting that the mind is bewildered in trying to dispose of them in

a single brief paragraph. With the more prominent varieties of the oak

and the pine we associate everything that is noble and strong and

imposing, but, generally speaking, we are not enthusiastic in our love

of the less important members of the family; but this is not so with the

maple. The head of this family, as well as all its kindred, we admire

and love—the towering tree which freely yields its juices or life-blood

for our enjoyment, as well as the more slender varieties which are

distinguished for the gracefulness of their limbs and the beauty of

their leaves. The maple tree, of which there are ten different species

in this country, is found in all the States of the Union from Maine to

Louisiana, and, as near as can be ascertained, the present annual supply

of sugar from all the forests combined is not far from forty millions of

pounds, with perhaps two millions of gallons of the delicious maple

syrup. The State which takes the lead in this manufacture is New York,

and then come Vermont, Ohio, Indiana, Michigan, Pennsylvania, and

Virginia, and so on to the bottom of the list. I can remember the time

when the only maple sugar made in this country was made by the Indians,

and brought to the fur-trading settlements in “mocucks,” or by the

Canadian French; it was not long, however, before the Northern and

Western pioneers and emigrants began to manufacture it for family use;

but now, as already shown, it has become an important article of

commerce. An Indian sugar-camp at night in the olden times presented a

most romantic scene, with its huge fires, its lounging warriors, its

hard-working squaws, its squalling papooses, its howling and sneaking

dogs, its smells of roasting venison, and its hilarious mirth, as well

as the drumming of the magicians calling upon the maple sap to run free;

but in these latter days the white man goes into the forest with his

assistants, and with a single eye to the making of money he draws the

sap, and boils it down to sugar, with about as much apparent happiness

as he would butcher his pigs. It is asserted by Charlevoix that the

aborigines were not acquainted with the art of making maple sugar, but

that they were taught it by the first French settlers in North America,

and only employed the sap as a wholesome beverage, though they sometimes

went so far as to take it heated to a syrup. With regard to the value of

our maple forests on account of their wood, very much might be said, and

some varieties, on the score of usefulness, are equal to the best of

foreign woods; but it is not for their profitableness alone that we

esteem them. For the part they play in the scenery of our country they

merit the affection of every American; and as the summer rainbows span

the heavens with their glories, so do the maple forests in autumn

surround with a golden and crimson zone of their own the hills and the

mountains which they love.

As the maple in the Northern States gives up its vital juices for the

benefit of man, so also do the yellow and pitch pine in the South. The

forests composed of these two varieties are found from one extremity of

the Gulf States to the other, as well as in North Carolina and the

neighbouring States. Though varying in their characteristics according

to locality, it may be said of them generally that they spring from a

level and sandy soil—that the trees grow taller and less compactly than

the white pine of the North, and beneath them, instead of a dense

undergrowth of thickets, there is a luxuriant bed of grass, with a

mixture of low bushes and sword-palmettos. In North Carolina they give

employment to a large number of its inhabitants engaged in the

manufacture of tar, pitch, and turpentine; in the southern part of

Mississippi the better trees are greatly coveted for the making of masts

for our “great admirals;” on all the rivers navigated by steamboats, the

wood of the fat pine is the favourite fuel; and in Florida, where these

forests are most abundant perhaps, they are called “pine barrens,” and

have not as yet been employed for any of the commercial purposes to

which they are adapted. Everywhere among these woods the domestic cattle

are turned out to pasture, where they fatten and multiply and flourish,

demanding no other care during the whole year than to be occasionally

collected and counted by their owners. In all of them there is always to

be found an abundance of game, including the deer and turkey, the bear,

the opossum, raccoon, rabbit, grey fox, squirrel, and occasionally the

panther, with quails in countless numbers. The streams which flow among

them are generally dark in colour, but limpid, and form a most striking

contrast to the white sand which forms their bed; and on account of

their healthfulness the planters usually build their houses in

convenient groves, where the air is perpetually loaded with their

refreshing perfume. The roads which run through these forests are

commonly good, but, unless the traveller has an agreeable companion, he

will welcome the rudest cabin with delight at the sunset hour, and will

be likely to tell you that during his drive of fifty miles he has seen

nothing under the heavens but pine trees and little streams, waving

grass and pine trees. And yet, let the lover of the picturesque go into

a Carolina pine forest, where a hundred negroes are making turpentine,

and he will find much to interest him and amuse; and should he pass one

of these localities at night, he would be apt to imagine that the very

world was on fire. In the Gulf States, generally, the sportsman may

always have his tastes gratified to the fullest extent; and in the pine

woods of Florida especially, the naturalist will find enough to keep him

busy by investigating its subterranean streams and the secrets of the

“sinks” which abound in various districts, and in studying the ways of

the salamander rat, which everywhere builds its little home.

But if the “pine barrens” are monotonous and destitute of imposing

characteristics, such is surely not the case with the cypress forests or

swamps of the Southern States. The area of a belt one hundred miles wide

lying along the Gulf of Mexico is perhaps about equally divided between

the two varieties of forest just mentioned, but, so far as their effect

upon the mind is concerned, the cypress swamps are unequalled, we fancy,

by anything of the kind out of the Brazils or Hindustan. The American

cypress is a different species from that which has acquired a mournful

celebrity in Europe. It is more stupendous in size, growing out of a

submerged soil, rearing its cone-shaped form to the height of two

hundred feet, at the top of which it spreads great masses of horizontal

branches, dense and fragrant. It delights to wrap itself in the heavy

and hoary robes of flowing moss, which seems to vie with the cypress in

growth, the one stretching aspiringly up, and the other mournfully down,

as if finding solace in the companionship of the giant trees. If it be

true that many of them have been growing for a thousand years or more,

their grandeur, as some traveller has asserted, becomes a demoniac

power. In the deeper waters which sluggishly wind about these swamps, in

“wildering mazes lost,” among the overhanging palmetto and juniper

thickets, the alligator eats and sleeps his horrid life away; the

water-moccasin and the mammoth rattlesnake crawl up and coil themselves

upon the fallen and decaying trees; while upon the cone-shaped suckers

of the cypress, which rise out of the water to the height of from one to

ten feet, the heron and crane and other aquatic birds sit and watch for

their fishy or reptile prey. So closely matted is the foliage on the

horizontal limbs far above that there is a twilight gloom in these

forests even when the sun is brightly shining; and as you pass along in

a rude canoe, you may see a vine big as the cable of a ship sweeping up

like a serpent into the top of a great cypress, as if to take its life,

while another will dart across from limb to limb as if pursuing a

phantom bird, and others will come gracefully bending down to within

your reach, as if tempting you to make a leap and swing yourself to

sleep. At times a mouldy and oppressive odour, born of the rotting trees

and the rank green mosses which cover them, pervades the entire

atmosphere; but near by you find a cluster of magnolia trees in full

bloom, and as you approach you will be quite overpowered by their

intense fragrance, placed there, it may be, by the kindly hand of Nature

as an antidote to the odours just inhaled. But the deepest impressions

are those of grandeur and gloom; and when you gaze upon the marvellously

beautiful flowers which hang in festoons on every side, they have a kind

of spectral hue, and seem to implore you to carry them away from the

surrounding desolation.

To witness the most extensive cypress forest in the South, the traveller

has only to keep his eyes open while passing down the Lower Alabama.

Here the country is a dead level for one or two hundred miles, the woods

forming a dark and almost solid wall on either side of the river,

fringed at the base by a line of jungle or cane-brake, with nothing to

relieve the intense monotony but the wild-fowl which cover the waters,

the columns of smoke from invisible steamboats (hidden by the bends in

the river), and the rude cabins, at distant intervals, of the

wood-choppers or hunters. A sail down the Alabama on a still but cloudy

night, when no sounds are heard but the rumbling of the passing steamer

and the scream of the bittern, is well calculated to give the thoughtful

tourist a new sensation, if not some new ideas; and should he happen to

approach Mobile in the midst of a brilliant sunset, as I once did, when

the boundless sea of woods partook of the golden and crimson dyes of the

sky, he will be apt to fancy that the gloom of his sail down the river

was but a dream.

The general description given of the cypress swamps will answer very

well for any particular locality, for there is a great sameness in them;

but if called upon to designate some favourite specimens, I should

mention those of the Pascagoula and the Great Pedee, the borders of the

great Okefinokee Swamp, the Dismal Swamp of Virginia, and one or two in

Louisiana, where the magnificent cotton-wood disputes the supremacy with

the cypress. But there is one spot in Florida where the Spirit of Beauty

has made a successful effort to thwart the depressing influences of the

cypress; and that is at the head of the Wakulla river, where may be

found, completely surrounded by a cypress forest, the most beautiful

fountain in the world, undoubtedly—four hundred feet in width, one

hundred and fifty feet deep, and so perfectly pure that a penny, on a

still day, may be seen on its white bottom, where the alligator and many

varieties of fish live and multiply, while all around its shores aquatic

birds without number seem to enjoy a perennial elysium.

But it is time that we should be “coming out of the wilderness.” We

might give a general account of the cotton-wood forests of the Lower

Mississippi, and notice some of the wonderful doings of that river in

submerging that whole region of country; and also touch upon the

bottom-land forests of the Central Mississippi and the Illinois, both of

which we have explored; and it would afford us pleasure to descant upon

the lordly pasture-oaks of Massachusetts, the American and English elms

of Connecticut, New Hampshire, and New York, and by way of variety tell

what we know of the larch or tamarack swamps on the borders of Lake

Superior. Before concluding our Forest Recollections, however, we must

pay a passing tribute to the woods of Michigan. I claim for this State

at least one kind of forest which was not found in the same kind of

perfection in any other State. I mean its beautiful oak-openings. Even

when the country was a wilderness, they had all the appearance of being

cultivated, and hence the peculiar pleasure which they afforded to the

toiling exiles from the Eastern States. The trees were not large, but

picturesque in form; and scattered as they were over a rolling country

covered with grass and without any undergrowth, beaten roads were not a

necessity; so that horsemen, as well as the wagons of the pioneers, were

free to roam wherever fancy led. Alternating as they did with small

prairies and lakes of great beauty, their influences upon the traveller

were altogether cheerful; and when overtaken by the tide of

civilisation, the log-cabins first erected among them became the most

agreeable little homes in the world, and it was a long time before the

deer and the turkey would consent to abandon their sunny feeding-lands.

These oak-openings invited the emigrant to stop and pitch his tent under

their cooling shadows, and, if they did not grant him the richest soil

to be found, thus lessened his labours as a husbandman. So much for the

past, but on opening our eyes to the realities of the present, when the

autumnal sun is shining, we behold this region of country, for the most

part, waving with wheat and corn, and the cooing of the dove or the song

of the whip-poor-will superseded by the whistle of the savage

locomotive. Kindred changes have also taken place in the

heavily-timbered districts of Michigan and the adjoining States on the

south. The forests which covered this whole region, taken in the

aggregate, were formerly unsurpassed in their grandeur and beauty, their

variety and usefulness. All the trees which sprung from the black mould

of this wilderness attained to the most complete perfection: the black

walnut contested with the foreign mahogany in beautifying the abodes of

the wealthy; the white oak, as well as the black, the yellow and

burr-oak, joined the live-oak in making the most perfect ships; the

hickory threw down for all who would gather them its delectable nuts;

the maple yielded its stores of sugar in defiance of the cane of the

South; the white poplar, the sycamore, the linn, and basswood, allowed

themselves to be formed into huge canoes, whereby the pioneers might

navigate the streams; and with them all, each with its useful mission,

grew in abundance the elm, the ash, and the beech, the buckeye and the

butternut, while mammoth grape-vines and the mistletoe did their best to

make them beautiful. And with what a variety of sports were they

associated. Here the red deer was blinded by the cruel flambeau: the

bear was smoked out of his hiding-place in the hollow tree; the wolf was

baited and slaughtered in spite of his howling; the black and grey

squirrels were “barked” off the trees by the thousand; the wild turkeys

were followed to their high roosts at midnight and picked off with the

unerring rifle; and when the wild pigeons commenced their annual

migrations, there was great glee among the urchins of the land, who were

wont to kill them with common clubs, until what began as sport ended as

mere labour. Nor should we omit in this list the fascinating hunt after

the honey of the wild bee. Fruitful and grand as were these primeval

forests of the West, there were times when they became impotent under

the superior forces of fire and the hurricane. I have seen them on an

autumnal night, after a long drought, when every tree seemed a column of

solid fire, and sheets of flames swept shrieking into the upper air, the

wild beasts fleeing for their lives, and puny man wondering what would

be the end of the great calamity. And when came the summer hurricane,

clearing a direct pathway across the solid woods, breaking and twisting

and laying low upon the earth the most gigantic trees, the spectacle was

marvellous to behold, inspiring terror in the stoutest heart, and

proclaiming in thunder-tones the existence of a ruling and omnipotent

Power.

The foregoing bird’s-eye view of the forests we have seen does not, we

regret to say, comprise the great pine and red-wood of California and

Oregon: of them we can only repeat what the travellers tell us,—that

they are the wonder of the world. We now invite our readers to join us

in a retrospective view of our extensive and superb country as it

appears to the mind’s eye in the light of the olden times.

When white men first landed upon our shores, they found shelter from the

summer’s heat and the winter’s cold in forests whose very shadows at the

sunset hours mingled with the surges of the Atlantic. Far as their

visions could penetrate they beheld a wilderness of woods, and they were

deeply impressed with the imposing aspects of Nature as she revealed the

wonders of her luxuriance; and, though undiscovered and unexplored,

there then existed an almost boundless domain of forest. Excepting one

single but truly extensive section of prairie or desert land, lying

westward of the centre, the country was then all forest, from the

Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean, and from Lake Superior and its daughter

seas to the Gulf of Mexico. Our country was then an empire of monarchs,

throned upon a thousand mountains and in a thousand valleys, and their

diadems of luxuriant green, leafy and fragrant, were oftentimes bathed

in the clouds of heaven, and burnished to surpassing brilliancy by the

sunbeams. The forests which then existed were well-nigh as aged as the

world itself—primeval in all their features. Like the antediluvians,

the trees which composed them were buffeted by the storms of centuries,

but remained virtually uninjured and unchanged; they were, in truth, the

emblems of superior might and power. Indeed, then as now, only a portion

of them were subject to the destroying and regenerating influences of

the seasons; for, while the forests of the South were bright with a

perpetually verdant foliage and extensively laden with fruit, the

evergreens of the North afforded a comfortable shelter from the snows

and winds to the human and subordinate denizens of the wilderness-world.

Aside, too, from their immense extent, their magnificence and strength,

these forests were remarkable for their density, since we have every

reason to believe that but for the intervening streams they presented

continuous fields of foliage, receding to the four corners of the

horizon. Hence the gloom and solitude which ever pervaded their

recesses. And when we think of them brooding under the pall of night, in

the mellow light of the moon and stars, or swaying to and fro, and

moaning, as it were, under the influences of summer and winter storms,

we become impressed with emotions that are truly sublime.

And as we turn from the remote past, and come down to recent times, how

are we impressed with the numerous revealings of science in connection

with the forest world! But even those revealings are involved in

mystery. For example, the fact is known to all that when a primeval

forest has been destroyed, and the land is left undisturbed, a new and

totally different growth of trees takes the place of the old. In the

place of the pine come the oak and the chestnut, although the latter may

never before have been known in that particular region. Where formerly

deciduous trees grew and flourished, we now find nothing but members of

the cedar family; and so on with many other varieties of trees. To my

mind the natural history of this country does not possess any more

interesting and wonderful phenomena.

But there was also much of the beautiful and the peaceful associated

with the forests of the olden times. How could it have been otherwise,

since it is evermore the province and the delight of our mother Nature

to fill the hearts of her children with love rather than with terror and

awe? Flowers of loveliest hue and sweetest fragrance nestled in

countless numbers around the serpent roots of every patriarchal tree;

vines of every size and every shade of emerald encircled with their

delicate tendrils the trees which they had been taught to love; and when

the lightning chanced to make a breach in the continuous woods, these

vines ventured boldly into the sunshine and linked together the adjacent

masses of foliage; and everywhere were the rank and damp but velvety

mosses clinging to the upright trees, and battening upon those which

were fallen and going to decay, and covering, as with a mantle, every

rock and stony fragment within their reach. And there, too, were the

streams which watered this great forest-world, sometimes miles in width

and thousands of miles in length, and sometimes of such limited

dimensions as only to afford bathing-places for the wild-fowl and her

brood. But they were all beautiful, for their waters were translucent to

a degree that we seldom witness in these days, and their chief enjoyment

was to mirror the flowers and drooping boughs that fringed their

borders, as well as the skies which bent over a land of uninterrupted

peace. And throughout the length and breadth of this great silvan domain

was perpetually heard the singing of unnumbered birds, which built their

nests wherever they listed, while none were there to molest or make them

afraid. Of four-footed creatures, too, the primeval forests harboured

immense numbers, like the forest trees themselves, they flourished and

multiplied, and with them, with the birds, the streams, the flowers, and

the combined magnificence of Nature, they performed their secret

ministry of good for the benefit of the aborigines who had inherited

this matchless wilderness directly from the all-wise Creator.

And what were the human figures which naturally made their appearance in

the picture we have drawn? The smoke from Indian wigwams arose from

unnumbered valleys and the sides of unnumbered mountains; and as the

products of the forest trees were more than sufficient to gratify every

necessity, the aborigines had nothing to do but pursue the even tenor of

their lives in contentment and peace. For shelter, when the woods

themselves did not suffice, they resorted to their rude bark wigwams;

for food, to the simple arts of the chase and the fruits of the land;

for clothing, to the skins of captured animals; for religion, to the

Great Spirit whom they beheld in the elements, the heavens and the

revolving seasons; and for unalloyed happiness to the Spirit of Freedom

which canopied their forest home. But, alas! like the aborigines, the

glorious forests of America are rapidly passing away, withering year by

year from off the face of the earth; and while we would implore the

devotees of Mammon to spare, as far as possible, the beauties of our

forest land, we would repeat the appeal to Providence of the

forest-loving Bryant, when he says that, for many years to come,

               “Be it ours to meditate

       In these calm shades Thy milder majesty,

       And to the beautiful order of Thy works

       Learn to conform the order of our lives.”

          THE HUNTERS OF THE SEA-ELEPHANT.

“That’s a ship from Desolation, and she’s full of elephant oil!” The

words were spoken by an old skipper, with whom the writer had been upon

a fishing cruise in Long Island Sound, and they were prompted by the

sight of a storm-beaten vessel passing into the beautiful harbour of New

London. The return of the ship after a long voyage I could readily

understand, but the place and the commodity alluded to were to me

involved in mystery. The brief explanation which followed from the

skipper only tended to increase my interest in his casual remark; nor

was it lessened when he told me that the Desolation Islands were more

nearly identified with New London than with any other seaport in the

country. In a short time, therefore, after my return from fishing, I was

busy among the ancient mariners of the town, asking them questions, and

recording their replies.

In the South Atlantic or Indian Ocean, about midway between the Cape of

Good Hope and the western coast of Australia, are located two islands,

lonely and inhospitable, and nearly three thousand miles from the

nearest continent. One of them bears the name of Kerguelen’s Land, and

the other that of Heard’s Island; and although not very near neighbours,

they are known to the men “who go down to the sea in ships,” as the

Desolation Islands. The first mentioned of these was discovered by a

lieutenant in the French navy, named Kerguelen, in 1772, and for his

service he was promoted to the command of a frigate. He re-visited the

new land in 1773, gave it the name of La Fortune, and reported to his

Government that he had discovered a new continent, in which opinion he

was of course mistaken. Its exact location is lat. 49 S., long. 70 E. In

1777 the famous navigator Cook, by direction of the English Government,

also visited this island; he gave its principal bays and headlands the

names which they have since borne; and he made the assertion that, if it

had not already received the name of its discoverer, he would be

inclined to call it the Land of Desolation. The other island to which we

have alluded lies about one hundred and eighty miles south-east of

Kerguelen’s Land, and although actually discovered by a Boston navigator

named Heard in 1853, while on his way to Australia, the first man who

set foot upon it was Captain E. Darwin Rogers, of New London; and the

man who brought away from each of the two islands in question the first

cargoes of oil, was Captain Franklin F. Smith, also of New London. The

log-books and private journals of these men have been placed in my

possession, as well as the journal of Captain Henry Rogers, who was one

of a small party that first spent a winter upon Heard’s Island; and it

is from these original records that the following facts have been

chiefly compiled.

The most complete account of Kerguelen’s Land comes to me from Captain

Smith, and a word or two about the man himself should not be omitted in

this place. He was born in New London in 1804, and before completing his

thirteenth year became a sailor in a coasting vessel. In 1822 he went

upon a whaling voyage to Patagonia; and on being promoted to the command

of a ship in 1831, he entered upon a series of voyages which have been

pronounced the most successful in the annals of whaling. The names of

his vessels were the “Florio,” “Julius Cæsar,” “Tuscarora,” and the

“Chelsea;” and in the course of ten years he made nine voyages, the

first seven of them yielding 16,154 barrels of whale oil, and 1147

barrels of sperm, the total value of which, according to present prices,

and without counting extras, would amount to about six hundred and fifty

thousand dollars. These voyages were made in behalf of N. and W. W.

Billings, and of Williams and Haven. During four of them his wife

accompanied him in his explorations around the globe; and his only

daughter was born at sea, receiving the name of the ship in which the

event occurred. He also had a number of sons, one of whom acquired

distinction as a whaleman; and four brothers, who were all

whale-hunters. One of them was killed while fighting one of the ocean

monsters in the Pacific Ocean; and another was successful in the same

sphere of enterprise. He made a number of voyages to Kerguelen’s Land,

and, as already stated, he was the first American who brought any oil

from that remote region in 1837; and now, reserving some other

particulars about him for another place, I come to his description of

the island.

It is about one hundred miles long, and perhaps sixty wide, and reputed

to be the most barren spot in either hemisphere. It is of volcanic

origin, rises in some places in terraces to the height of three thousand

feet above the sea, with one pointed peak said to be nearly six thousand

feet high; contains a number of lofty and picturesque headlands; is

indented with bays or fiords, some of which nearly cross the island, and

to the geologist it is especially interesting, as containing in its

igneous formations a large amount of fossil wood and coal. Small rocky

islands, to the number of three hundred, surround it on all sides; and

yet it has several first-rate harbours. During the entire year, the

higher lands are covered with ice and snow, which, with the fogs and

winds, dispute the honour of making the place desolate in the extreme.

The vegetation, which is very limited, is antarctic; and although

scientific men have described one hundred and fifty species of plants,

the ordinary observer would only be attracted by four—a kind of

saxifrage, a plant resembling the cabbage, a variety of coarse grass,

and a plant belonging to the cress family. As to trees, there is not one

to be found, and it is not probable that any ever grew on the island.

But the sea-weeds which fringe the shores of the entire island are

particularly rich and rare, some of them growing to the enormous length

of sixty feet. Of quadrupeds it is entirely destitute. In the way of

birds, it is frequented by a few gulls, now and then by an albatross,

and by penguins in the greatest abundance. In olden times, such portions

of the coast as were accessible were frequented by several kinds of

seals, and also by the sea-elephant; but they are now becoming scarce.

There are no permanent inhabitants on the island; and since it has

ceased, for the most part, to afford a profitable supply of oil, it is

chiefly interesting to seafaring men in these latter days as a secure

rendezvous when overtaken by foul weather in their lone wanderings

around the globe. During the period when England enjoyed the monopoly of

killing seals on this island for their furs alone, it was estimated that

the yield was about one million skins per annum.

But it is of Heard’s Island that I desire especially to speak at

present. It is about eighteen miles long, and perhaps six or seven wide;

and, by right of discovery, is an American possession. For many years

the merchants of New London cherished the belief that there was land

somewhere south of Kerguelen’s Island, for in no other way could their

captains account for the continuous supply of the sea-elephant on its

shores. As long ago as 1849 Captain Thomas Long, then of the “Charles

Carroll,” reported to the owners of his ship that he had seen land from

the mast-head, while sailing south of Kerguelen’s Land; but Captain

Heard has received the credit of the discovery, although he did not land

upon the island. The man who first did this was Captain E. Darwin

Rogers. He was on a cruise after sperm whale; his ship was the

“Corinthian,” and he had three tenders; and his employers were Perkins

and Smith—the same Smith already mentioned. Captain Rogers commemorated

his success by an onslaught upon the sea-elephants, which he found very

numerous on the shore; and after securing four hundred barrels of oil,

improved the first opportunity to inform his employers of what he had

done, urging them not only to keep the information secret, but to

despatch another vessel to the newly-discovered island. When the news

reached New London, Perkins and Smith were without a ship or a suitable

captain for the enterprise. The second member of the firm had long

before given up the sea, and was hoping to spend the remainder of his

days at home in the quiet enjoyment of an ample fortune. But the

temptation was strong, and he yielded. The firm purchased a ship at

once, and the moment she was equipped, Captain Smith took command, and

sailed for Heard’s Island. With Captain Darwin Rogers as his right-hand

man he fully explored the island, named all its headlands and bays and

other prominent features, made a map of it, and succeeded in filling all

his vessels with oil. Two exploits which he performed with the

assistance of his several crews, are worth mentioning. At one point,

which he called the Seal Rookery, they slaughtered five hundred of these

animals, and, as was afterwards found, thereby exterminated the race in

that locality! and they performed the marvellous labour of rolling three

thousand barrels of elephant oil a distance of three miles, across a

neck of the island, from one shore to another where their vessels were

anchored. The ship which he himself commanded returned in safety to New

London with a cargo of oil valued at one hundred and thirty thousand

dollars, one-half of which was his property. On reaching the dock he was

warmly congratulated by his numerous friends; was informed that the

books of his firm never told a better story than they did then, and that

good news had been received from thirteen of their whale-ships, which

were homeward bound from the Pacific and Arctic Seas. In addition to all

this, he found that two farms which he owned had increased in value, and

that the ten or twelve thousand dollars he had invested in erecting the

Pequot House, since become famous as a summer resort, would probably pay

him a handsome interest. But as the wheel of fortune would have it, in

six months from the date of his arrival home from Heard’s Island he had

lost his entire property. The blow was terrible, and a desolation of

heart fell upon him, which could not but remind him of the Desolation

Islands in the Indian Sea. After resting upon his oars for a few years,

he made one desperate effort in 1862 to retrieve his fortunes, but the

tide was still against him, and he was unsuccessful. His friends

furnished him with a new ship, and he went upon another voyage to the

Desolation Islands. Having secured a good cargo of whale and elephant

oil, the ship was wrecked on a reef off the Seychelle Islands, after

which he obtained a passage to Mauritius, and by way of London,

Liverpool, and New York, returned to New London, where he subsequently

resided, a worthy and much respected, but disappointed man.

But it is time that we should be giving our readers an idea of the

physical characteristics of Heard’s Island. It is in reality an ice

island, with only enough of solid land visible at different points to

prove that it is not an iceberg. From the centre of it there rises, to

the height of at least five thousand feet, a broad-breasted mountain,

which is known to be perpetually covered with ice and snow, and its

sides and summits are so cold and desolate that no living creature has

ever been seen to harbour there, excepting the albatross. Some of the

points or headlands, which are found along its eastern shore, rise out

of the sea in the form of perpendicular cliffs, and Captain Darwin

Rogers alleges that he was once at anchor near one of these cliffs for

an entire month without obtaining a view of the summit; and also that

during that period his ship on several occasions was felt to quiver from

stem to stern in a very frightful manner, the cause of which, as he

subsequently ascertained, was the falling of immense blocks of ice from

the cliffs into the sea. Alternating with those huge bulwarks of ice are

some of the most beautiful beaches of black sand, where the surf

perpetually rolls up fresh from the South Pole. The only fish found

along its shores is called the night-fish, and resembles the cod. There

is not a tree or shrub on the island, and the vegetation is so limited

that only two varieties are ever mentioned in the journals before us,

viz., a coarse kind of tussock grass and the wild cabbage. The birds are

about the same as those found on Kerguelen’s Land, viz., gulls,

“mollymokes” or penguins, cape pigeons, and the albatross. In the way of

mammals it boasts of but one creature alone, and that is the

sea-elephant, but for this it is the most profitable hunting-ground in

the world.

What the lion is to the common cat, the sea-elephant or _Morunga

proboscidea_ is to the seal—the mammoth representative. Though not

uniform in size, they frequently attain a length of thirty feet, and a

circumference of fifteen or eighteen feet, the blubber of a single

individual sometimes yielding three hundred gallons of oil, which is

considered more valuable than that of the whale. The grown males have an

elongated snout, which gives them the name they bear; their teeth are

short and deeply rooted, the molars small and pointed, the canines very

large, and the power of their jaws so great that an angry male elephant

has been known to seize a dead comrade weighing a ton and toss him a

considerable distance as a dog would a rat. When quite young they are

called silver grey pups from their colour, but as they mature they

become brown, the males inclining to a dark blue, and the females to a

yellow shade; their home is the sea, but they have a fashion of spending

much of their time upon the shore, occasionally going inland two or

three miles and luxuriating in fresh-water marshes; they are sluggish in

their movements, and somewhat stupid, and in certain localities they

congregate in large herds or corrals; their tongues are used by the

sailors as a welcome delicacy, and by the Yankee boys frequently worked

into mince pies; the scraps which are left after the blubber has been

“tried out” are employed as fuel, with which the trying-out process is

conducted; their food is supposed to consist chiefly of cuttle-fish and

sea-weed, and the instrument employed in killing them is a sharp lance,

which penetrates the throat and causes them to bleed to death. In sailor

parlance, the old males are called beach-masters and bulls, and the

females pupping-cows and brown cows. During the season of courtship the

bulls fight desperately with each other, uttering a kind of roar, and

inflicting fearful wounds, while the lady elephants, in groups of from

fifteen to twenty, look on in dignified silence and satisfaction, as if

ready, with expanded flippers, to welcome the victor into their midst.

The mothers usually remain in charge of their young about two months,

and during all that time it is said that the lord of each harem occupies

a convenient eminence, with his head generally toward the sea, and acts

as sentinel to prevent the mothers from abandoning their young, or to

protect his favourites from the ungallant assaults of any roving

individuals. The number of these animals which annually resort to

Heard’s Island, coming from unknown regions, is truly immense. In former

times, the men who hunted them invariably spared all the cubs they met

with, but in these latter days the young and old are slaughtered

indiscriminately! We can give no figures as to the total yield of

elephant oil in this particular locality, but we know that the men who

follow the business lead a most fatiguing and wild life, and well

deserve the largest profits they can make. While Kerguelen’s Land is the

place where the ships of the elephant-hunters spend the summer months,

which season is literally the “winter of their discontent,” it is upon

Heard’s Island that the big game is chiefly, if not exclusively, found.

Then it is that gangs of men have the hardihood to build themselves rude

cabins upon the island, and there spend the entire winter. Among those

who first exiled themselves to this land of fogs and snow and stormy

winds, was one Captain Henry Rogers, then serving as first mate; and

from his journal, which he kept during this period, we may obtain a

realising sense of the loneliness and hardships of the life to which

Americans, for the love of gain, willingly subject themselves in the

far-off Indian Ocean.

Having taken a glance at the leading men who identified themselves with

the Desolation Islands, and also at the physical peculiarities of those

islands, we propose to conclude this sketch with a running account of

Captain Henry Rogers’s adventures during his winter on Heard’s Island.

He left New London in the brig “Zoe,” Captain James Rogers master,

October 26, 1856, and arrived at the place of destination February 13,

1857. For about five weeks after their arrival the crew was kept very

busy in rafting to the brig several hundred barrels of oil, which had

already been prepared and left over by the crew of a sister vessel, and

on the 22d of March the wintering gang, with Captain Henry Rogers as

their leader, proceeded to move their plunder to the shore, and when

that work was completed the brig sailed for the Cape of Good Hope. The

gang consisted of twenty-five men, and after building their house, which

was merely a square excavation on the ground, covered with boards, and

made air-tight with moss and snow, they proceeded to business. Those who

were expert with the lance did most of the killing; the coopers hammered

away at their barrels; and, as occasions demanded, all hands

participated in skinning the huge sea-elephants, or cutting off the

blubber in pieces of about fifteen pounds each, and then, on their

backs, or on rude sledges, transporting it to the trying works, where it

was turned into the precious oil. Not a day was permitted to pass

without “bringing to bag” a little game, and the number of elephants

killed ranged from three to as high a figure as forty. According to the

record, if one day out of thirty happened to be bright and pleasant, the

men were thankful; for the regularity with which rain followed snow, and

the fogs were blown about by high winds, was monotonous beyond

conception. And when night came, and the monotonous suppers were packed

away, the stories which followed were monotonous, and as the tired men

wrapped themselves in their blankets for the night, there was a monotony

in their very dreams—but they were of home—of wives and children and

friends—far, far away, over illimitable sea—and that was a monotony

which they enjoyed. When one of these men chanced to be wakeful at the

hour of midnight, and went forth from the pent-up cabin to enjoy the

fresh air, or to commune with himself, how must the blackness of

darkness, and the wild wailing of the ocean, mingled with the screams of

the penguins, or the moon and stars shining in their marvellous beauty

on the tranquil deep, have filled him with awe! The great waves,

perhaps, like beasts of prey, came careering out of the abyss of space,

and as they dashed and perished against the icy cliffs, would give an

unearthly howl, which the winds carried entirely across the island, only

to be welcomed by an answering roar from the waves on the opposite

shore.

Month after month passes away, and there is no cessation in the labours

of the elephant-hunters. Mist and snow and slaughter, the packing of

oil, hard bread and bad beef, fatigue and heavy slumbers—these are the

burthen of their song of life. Those who chance to remember with

pleasure the sound of Sabbath bells may cherish a Sabbath feeling in

their hearts, but while their children are in attendance at the

Sunday-school, in the far-off New England church, stern necessity

compels them, with lance in hand, to do battle with the sea-elephant.

But when the anniversary of their National Independence arrives, they

must needs devote one hour of their precious time to the bidding of

their patriotism, notwithstanding the fact that their cabin may be

covered with snow, and a snow-storm raging. With the aid of their

pistols for muskets, and a hole in a rock for artillery, they fire a

national salute; with a tin pan for a kettle-drum, and a piece of wire

for a triangle, they have an abundant supply of music; forming

themselves into a procession, they march with stately pace in front of a

snow-drift, instead of a grand hotel; and with the tongue of an elephant

for roast beef, and some ginger-pop for Catawba wine, they have a

glorious feast, and leaving their bunting to flap itself into a wet rag

over their island home, they pick up their lances and are soon busy

again among the elephant herds. Another month, and perhaps two more have

passed away, when lo! there comes the brig again, with the latest news

from the Cape of Good Hope, but with nothing new from dear New England.

The vessel drops her anchor; in a few weeks she is filled to the brim,

by rafting and boating, with the barrels of oil which have been

collected during the long and tedious winter (misnamed summer), and on

the approach of Christmas the sails of the brig are again unfurled, and

away she goes, homeward bound; and at sunset, on 3d April 1858, the

keeper of the Montauk Light points to the south-east, and says to his

wife: “There comes a brig from the Desolation Islands!”

         PETER PITCHLYNN THE INDIAN SCHOLAR.

When Mr. Charles Dickens first visited this country, he met upon a

steamboat, on the Ohio river, a noted Choctaw chief, with whom he had

the pleasure of a long conversation. In the _American Notes_ we find an

agreeable account of this interview, in which the Indian is described as

a remarkably handsome man, and, with his black hair, aquiline nose,

broad cheek-bones, sun-burnt complexion, and bright, keen, dark and

piercing eye, as stately and complete a gentleman of nature’s making as

the author ever beheld. That man was Peter P. Pitchlynn. Of all the

Indian tribes which acknowledge the protecting care of the American

Government, there are none that command more respect than the Choctaws,

and among their leading men there is not one more deserving of notice by

the public at large than the subject of this chapter. Merely as a

romantic story, the leading incidents of his life cannot but be read

with interest, and as a contribution to American history, obtained from

the man himself, they are worthy of being recorded.

His father was a white man, of a fighting stock, noted for his bravery

and forest exploits, and an interpreter under commission from General

Washington, while his mother was a Choctaw. He was born in the Indian

town of Hush-ook-wa, now Noxabee county in the State of Mississippi,

January 30, 1806. He commenced life by performing the duties of a

cow-boy, and when old enough to bend a bow, or hold a rifle to his

shoulder, he became a hunter, roaming the forests for game, and

unconsciously filling his mind with the refining influences of nature.

At the councils of his nation, however, he sometimes made his appearance

as a looker-on, and once, when a member of the tribe, who had been

partially educated in New England, was seen to write a letter to

President Monroe, Pitchlynn resolved that he would himself become a

scholar. The nearest school to his father’s log cabin was at that time

two hundred miles off, among the hills of Tennessee, and to that he was

despatched after the usual manner of such important undertakings. As the

only Indian boy at this school, he was talked about and laughed at, and

within the first week after his admission he found it necessary to give

the “bully” of the school a severe thrashing, thereby gratifying the

public generally, and causing his antagonist to be expelled. At the end

of the first quarter he returned to his home in Mississippi, where he

found his people negotiating a treaty with the General Government; on

which occasion he made himself notorious by refusing to shake the hand

of Andrew Jackson, the negotiator, because, in his boyish wisdom, he

considered the treaty an imposition upon the Choctaws. Nor did he ever

change his opinion on that score. His second step in the path of

education was taken at the Academy of Columbia, in Tennessee, and he

graduated at the University of Nashville. Of this institution General

Jackson was a trustee, and on recognising young Pitchlynn, during an

official visit to the College, he remembered the demonstration which the

boy had made on their first meeting, and by treating him with kindness,

changed the old feeling of animosity to that of warm personal

friendship, which lasted until the death of the famous Tennesseean.

On his return to Mississippi our hero settled upon a prairie, which

became known by his name, and became a farmer, but amused himself by an

occasional hunt for the black bear. He erected a comfortable log cabin,

and having won a faithful heart, he caused his marriage ceremony to be

performed in public, and according to the teachings of Christianity, the

Rev. C. Kingsbury being the officiating missionary, a man long endeared

to the Southern Indians, and known as “Father Kingsbury.” As Pitchlynn

was the first man among his people to set so worthy an example, we must

award to him the credit of having given to polygamy its death-blow in

the Choctaw nation, where it had existed from the earliest times.

Another reform which young Pitchlynn had the privilege and sagacity of

inaugurating among his people was in reference to the cause of

Temperance, which had for some years been advocated by an Indian named

David Folsom. In a treaty made in 1820, an article had been introduced

by the Choctaws themselves, prohibiting the sale, by red men as well as

white men, of spirituous liquors within their borders, but up to 1824 it

remained a dead letter. During that year the Council of the Nation

passed a law, organising a corps of light horse, to whom was assigned

the duty of closing all the dram-shops that could be found carrying on

their miserable traffic contrary to treaty stipulations. The command of

this band was assigned to young Pitchlynn, who from that time was

recognised by the title of Captain. In one year from the time he

undertook the difficult task of exterminating the traffic in liquor, he

had successfully accomplished it, but with the loss of a favourite

horse, which was shot down by a drunken Indian. As a reward for his

services he was elected a member of the National Council, being the only

young man thus honoured.

His first proposition, as a member of the National Council, was for the

establishment of a school; and that the students might become familiar

with the customs of the whites, it was decided that it should be located

in a more enlightened community than the Choctaw country. The Choctaw

Academy, thus founded, near Georgetown, Kentucky, and supported by the

funds of the nation, was for many years a monument of their advancing

civilisation. But in a sketch of this kind we cannot pretend to go into

all the particulars of Captain Pitchlynn’s life. We propose only to

glance at a few of his personal adventures in the wilderness, and

conclude our essay with some specimens of his talk respecting the

legendary lore of his people.

One of the most important and romantic incidents in his career grew out

of the policy, on the part of the General Government, for removing the

Choctaws, Chickasaws, and Creeks from their old hunting-grounds to a new

location west of the Mississippi river. At the request and expense of

the United States, a delegation of Indians was appointed in 1828 to go

upon an exploring and peace-making expedition into the Osage country,

and of this party Pitchlynn was appointed the leader. He was gone from

home about six months, and the substance of what he saw, and heard, and

performed, may be stated as follows:—

The delegation consisted of six persons—two from each of the three

tribes interested,—and the first town at which they stopped was

Memphis, before reaching which the more superstitious of the party were

made quite unhappy by the screeching of an owl near their encampment,

while the whole of them suffered much from the want of water. Their next

halt was at St. Louis, where they were supplied with necessaries by the

Indian superintendent; and their last was Independence, which was then a

place of a dozen log-cabins, and where the party received special

civilities from a son of Daniel Boone. On leaving Independence, the

members of the delegation, all well mounted, were joined by an Indian

agent, and their first camp on the broad prairie-land was pitched in the

vicinity of a Shawnee village. This tribe had never come in conflict

with the Choctaws (though the former took the side of Great Britain in

the war of 1812), and, according to custom, a council was convened and

pledges of friendship were renewed by an exchange of wampum and the

delivery of speeches. The sentiments of the Shawnee chief or prophet

were to this effect:—

“Brothers, we have been strangers for a long time. The Great Spirit has

been kind to us, and we are made happy by this meeting. You all know how

we acted in the big war. We were deceived by the bribes of the English,

while you remained friendly to the Americans, and we have paid for our

ignorance. When the earthquake happened in 1811, I thought it was the

voice of the Great Spirit telling our nation to exterminate the white

man; but I was mistaken, and now tell you so. The British were defeated,

and we have been compelled to seek the protection of the Americans,

against whom we have fought. But, what is more, we lost by that war many

of our bravest warriors. Even the great Tecumseh, who was my oldest

brother, was called away to sleep in his grave. This wampum I wish you

to take home and give it to your chiefs; hold it before the eyes of your

warriors, and tell them it is from their ancient friends the Shawnees.

This tobacco which I give you must be smoked by your chiefs in council.

Let the first smoke be in remembrance of the Shawnees; let the second be

for the protection of our wives and children; and when you blow the

third smoke to the sky, they must wish in their hearts that the Great

Spirit will be pleased with this meeting.”

To the above, after the pipe of peace had been duly smoked, Captain

Pitchlynn replied as follows:—“This, chiefs of the Shawnees, is a happy

meeting. It reminds me of the traditions I have heard, and of what my

father has many times told me, that in old times the Shawnees and

Delawares, the Cherokees, Creeks, and Chickasaws, and the Choctaws, all

lived like brothers on their separate hunting-grounds. It was once their

custom to meet often in council and to exchange kind words. But the

pushing of the white men gave all our fathers much trouble, and those

friendly meetings could not be kept up. It is true you took sides with

the British against the Americans, but the Choctaws from the beginning

have been at peace with the United States. On meeting several of our

chiefs in Philadelphia a great many years ago, George Washington, the

President, gave our nation some friendly advice, and we have tried to

remember his words. He told us we must conform as near as possible to

the customs of the white man. We have done so, and the benefit to our

nation has been great. We have always been anxious to preserve peace

with all the Indian tribes, and we are at present on friendly terms with

all of them excepting the Osages. The object of our present expedition

is to make a treaty with them. They have for a long time been our

bitterest enemies, and if we can succeed in our wishes we shall be very

happy not only to smoke your tobacco, but theirs also, when we return to

our country.”

After the ceremony a grand feast was proposed, which took place at a

neighbouring village on the following day, after which the expedition

continued its march towards the Osage country. For a time their course

lay along the famous Santa Fe trail, and then, turning to the

south-west, they journeyed over a beautiful country of rolling prairies

skirted with timber, until they came to an Osage village located on a

bluff of the Osage river. The delegation came to a halt within a short

distance of the village, and quietly tying their horses, proceeded to

make themselves comfortable. For several days the Osages showed signs of

their original enmity, and refused to meet the strangers in council; and

as it was well known that several Osages had recently been killed by a

wandering band of Choctaws, the probability of hostilities and an

attempted surprise was quite apparent. At the rising and the setting of

the sun, the entire body of Osages joined in a song of invocation,

commencing with a low moaning strain and ending with loud yells and

whoops. The delegation consulted seriously, and the mooted question was,

“Shall we propose a treaty of peace, or shall we retreat?” to which the

unanimous response was, “We will propose a treaty of peace, or die in

the attempt.” The proposal was made; after a long delay the Osages

agreed to meet the delegation in general council; and Captain Pitchlynn

stated that he and his party were the first Choctaws who had ever met

the Osages with peaceful intentions; they had travelled over two

thousand miles by the advice of the United States Government, in order

to propose to the Osages a treaty of perpetual peace.

To this an orator of the Osages replied: “I am surprised. I never

expected to hear anything from a Choctaw but the war-whoop and the crack

of his rifle. I think you have acted wrong in becoming so friendly with

the President. My wish is to fight on. I do not desire a peace between

the Osages and the Choctaws. The Osages were made to fight by a law of

their fathers. The tribes of the north, of the west, and of the south,

will tell you that we have adhered to this ancient law. The Osages never

sue for peace, and their scalps are always ready for those to take them

who can. I speak for all the warriors present, and have nothing more to

say. We will meet you again to-morrow at noon, and will hear what you

have to say.”

At the appointed time another council was held, and a regular war speech

having been decided upon by the delegation, an effort was made by the

Indian agent and interpreter who accompanied the party to bring about a

spirit of harmony, but their efforts were vain. When the moment arrived,

Captain Pitchlynn, as before, was the only speaker. After casting a

defiant look upon _Belle Oiseau_, the Osage orator, as well as upon the

other Osages present, he proceeded in these words: “After what the Osage

warrior said to us yesterday, we find it very hard to restrain our

ancient animosity. You inform us that by your laws it is your duty to

strike down all who are not Osage Indians. We have no such law. But we

have a law which tells us that we must always strike down an _Osage_

when we meet him. I know not what war-paths you may have followed west

of the Big River, but I very well know that the smoke of our council

fires you have never seen, and we live on the other side of the Big

River. Our soil has never been tracked by an Osage excepting when he was

a prisoner. I will not, like you, speak boastingly of the many war-paths

we have been upon. I am in earnest, and can only say that our last

war-path, if you will have it so, has brought us to the Osage country

and to this village. Our warriors at home would very well like to obtain

a few hundred of your black locks, for it is by such trophies that they

obtain their names. I mention these things to prove that we have some

ancient laws as well as yourselves, and that we, too, were made to

fight. Adhere to the laws of your fathers, refusing the offer for peace

that we have made, and you must bear the consequences. We are a little

band now before you, but we are not afraid to speak our minds. Our

contemplated removal from our old country to the sources of the Arkansas

and Red Rivers will bring us within two hundred miles of your nation,

and when that removal takes place, we will not finish building our

cabins before you shall hear the whoop of the Choctaws and the crack of

their rifles. Your warriors will then fall, and your wives and children

shall be taken into captivity. And this work will go on until the Osage

nation is entirely forgotten. You may not believe me, but our numbers

justify the assertion; and it is time that the Indian race should begin

a new kind of life. You say you will not receive the white paper of our

father, the President; and we now tell you that we take back all that we

said yesterday about a treaty of peace. A proposition for peace, if we

are to have it, must now come from the Osages.”

The council adjourned in silence, to meet again at noon on the following

day, when, as before, _Belle Oiseau_ took the lead. He held in his hand

a peace-pipe, which was painted white, and the tips of all the arrows in

his quiver were also stained with white. The substance of his talk was

as follows:—“The Osages have been up all night, considering the words

of the Choctaws and their friends. Your boldness convinces us that you

are speaking the mind of the Great Spirit. Your words sounded like the

war-whoop. We are not afraid of your threats, but you talk like men and

not like children, and we will treat you like men. We are willing to

blot out the war-path, and to make in its place the white path of peace,

upon which our wives and children may travel in safety without fear, and

which will never be stained in blood, nor be obstructed by anything but

the fallen oak or trailing vine, which we can surmount or remove. We

offer the words of truth; we desire to be friends.”

Peace was declared, and a universal shaking of hands succeeded. After

this the whole assembly took their seats again, and a deep silence of

many minutes prevailed; after which _Belle Oiseau_, with flint and

steel, struck a fire, and lighted the pipe of peace. Camp fire was not

used because of its supposed impurity, and on all such important

occasions it was deemed necessary to have the purest fire. The first man

who smoked was the chief _White Hair_, by whom the pipe was turned over

to _Belle Oiseau_, then to the Choctaws, Chickasaws, and Creeks, then to

the Indian agent and interpreter and finally to the Osages

promiscuously. A grand feast next followed, and the entire Osage village

during the succeeding night presented as joyous and boisterous an

appearance as _jerked buffalo_ meat and water could inspire. Speeches

made up a large part of the entertainment; and to Captain Pitchlynn was

awarded the honour of delivering the closing argument. He told the

Osages that his people had adopted the customs of civilisation, and were

already reaping much benefit therefrom. They encouraged missionaries,

established schools, and devoted attention to the pursuits of

agriculture and the mechanic arts. He advised the Osages to do the same;

to give up war as an amusement, and the chase as a sole dependence for

food; and then they would become a happy and prosperous people. This was

their only means of preservation from the grasping habits of the white

man. If they would strive for civilisation, the American Government

would treat them with greater kindness; and, though they might throw

away their eagle feathers, and live in permanent cabins, there was no

danger of losing their identity or name. During the last night of these

prolonged festivities a great snow-storm occurred, and on the following

morning, which was particularly mild and brilliant, the prairie on every

side, and as far as the eye could reach, was covered with the pure white

element. While the members of the delegation were making arrangements

for their departure, a large number of the Osages waited upon them to

pay their parting compliments. _Belle Oiseau_ was of the party, and,

with a countenance bespeaking real pleasure, he said that the Great

Spirit had certainly approved of the treaty which had been made, for he

had not only covered the path of the Choctaws with white, but had also

made all the paths of the country white paths of peace. He and a party

of warriors, selected for the purpose, then offered to escort the

delegation to the borders of the Osage country, a distance of one

hundred and fifty miles, which kindness they duly performed. During the

several nights which they spent together before parting, _Belle Oiseau_

was the chief talker, and he did much to entertain the whole party while

seated around their camp-fires by relating what adventures and

traditions he could remember, which he mixed up in the most

miscellaneous manner with facts of aboriginal history. He claimed that

his people were descended from a beaver, and that the Osage hunters

never killed that animal from fear of killing one of their own kindred.

He boasted that if his tribe was not as large as many others, it had

always contained the largest and handsomest men in the world; that their

horses were finer than those owned by the Pawnees and the Comanchees;

that they preferred buffalo meat for food to the fancy things which they

used in the settlements; that the buffalo robe suited them better than

the red blanket; the bow and arrows were better than the rifle or gun;

and he thought their Great Spirit was a better friend to them than the

Great Spirit of the white man, who allowed his children to ruin

themselves by drinking the fire-water.

In returning to their own homes, the Choctaws pursued a southern course,

passed down the Canadian river, the agents leaving them at a point near

Fort Gibson, and so continuing along the valley of the Red River; and as

before stated, after an absence of several months, they all reached

their cabins in safety. The incidents of the homeward journey were in

keeping with the wild and romantic country through which they travelled.

They had some severe skirmishes with the Comanchee Indians, and two of

the party got lost for a time while hunting buffaloes and bears. On one

occasion, when encamped at night on the Canadian, one of the men came

into camp and announced the fact that he had heard a great splashing in

the stream, and he was certain a party of Comanchees were ascending the

river in stolen canoes. Upon examination, however, the red enemies

proved to be a large flock or herd of beavers, both male and female,

which were splashing their way up the river in a very jolly mood, and

uttering meanwhile a guttural noise resembling the human voice. During

this expedition also, Captain Pitchlynn picked up in one of the frontier

cabins a bright little Indian boy, belonging to no particular tribe, as

he said, and carried him to Mississippi, had him educated at the Choctaw

Academy in Kentucky, and that boy is now one of the most eloquent and

faithful preachers to be found in the Choctaw nation. The expedition

here sketched was the first step taken by the Government towards

accomplishing the removal of the Indian tribes eastward of the

Mississippi river, to a new and permanent home in the Far West. The

several tribes, collected on the sources of the Arkansas and Red rivers,

and now living in a happy and progressive community, will probably

number fifty thousand souls. Cherokees, to the number of some eighteen

thousand, and Seminoles, numbering three thousand, have followed their

example; so that while thirty-six hundred of the Southern Indians are

said to be living at the present time in the country where they were

born—the States of Mississippi, Alabama, North Carolina, Georgia, and

Florida,—seventy-one thousand have made themselves a new home westward

of the Mississippi river.

One of the first expeditions performed by Captain Pitchlynn, after his

people had emigrated to the west, was one of exploration. He did not

exactly like the place on the Arkansas where he had built his first

cabin, and with a party of five men, and a slave-boy named Solomon to

lead his pack-horse, he crossed a range of mountains and visited the Red

River valley. They took no provisions with them, but counted on a full

supply of game. The trail which they followed took them into the midst

of very grand and wild scenery, but when about half way across, the

equinoctial gale commenced, and the rain came down in torrents for three

days and nights without ceasing for a single moment. During that whole

time they were without fire, wet to the skin, and entirely without food.

On the fourth day the clouds dispersed, and even the bright sunlight

could not bring his companions out of the savage mood into which they

had fallen. They said they knew they must die, and would do nothing to

help themselves. With his own hands he built a large fire, and only

asked the men to keep it up, and he would go after some food. He had

always confided in a superintending Providence, and that occasion was

only one of many which he has always delighted to mention in

confirmation of his faith. Having thoroughly dried his rifle, he went

forth, and in less than twenty minutes after leaving camp he had killed

a deer. The report of the gun attracted the men, when they came to his

help, and the deer was taken to camp. The entire night was spent in

feasting, and by the morning not a fragment of the venison was left. The

next day, one of the party killed a turkey, and some fish were penned up

and caught in a small mountain stream. The next night, Pitchlynn had a

dream, in which he was told that a calamity had occurred in his family.

Though not a believer in dreams, this one troubled him, and he resolved

to return at once and give up any further explorations. He did so, and

while crossing the _O-kai-mi-shi_ he was convinced that this river had a

right to its name, which means _the gathering waters_; and on reaching

the Indian settlement he found that every member of his family, and all

his slaves, were very sick with the fever of the country, and that the

floods had been so great that a large proportion of his cattle had been

drowned, and all the people were suffering from a storm which has never

been equalled in the Choctaw country since that time.

It was about this time also that, while spending the night entirely

alone with his horse, on a large prairie, that he witnessed a great

shower of falling stars. To him, on that occasion, there was no such

thing as sound in all the world, and the very flowers which peered

duskily above the surrounding grasses were without the slightest motion;

and then it was that the glory of the heavens came down upon the

earth—a marvel and a mystery. That he was greatly alarmed, or rather

astonished, cannot be denied, but he has said the utter loneliness of

feeling which overcame him at the time was never equalled in any of his

subsequent wanderings. If astonished at that time, not less was he in

1834, during the total eclipse of the sun. He had gone down the Red

River in a flat-boat, and having sold her at a certain point, started

for home by a direct though blind route across the country. He had

several companions, and at high noon, while crossing an extensive piece

of bottom-land, very heavily timbered, the darkness began to develop

itself. As it increased, and could not be accounted for, his friends

became greatly alarmed, but for himself, he suspected the real cause.

The birds stopped singing and retired to their places of repose, and

ever and anon an owl, on noiseless wing, winnowed across their pathway.

The gloom increased, and now there came stealing through the intricate

woods a strange wild scream, and the men wondered what a woman could be

doing in such a dreadful place. The scream soon gave place to a whine,

attended by a mysterious scratching noise, when lo! two panthers could

be seen leaping from limb to limb, and cutting a thousand antics, as if

gloating over their intended victims, or manifesting their anger at the

strange doings of the sun. In this manner, for nearly half a mile, were

the Choctaws attended, and the feline companions only disappeared,

without doing any harm, as the sun again made his appearance in the blue

above.

In 1834 the health of Captain Pitchlynn became so feeble on account of

the anxieties and troubles attending the removal of the nation westward,

that his friends told him something must be done for its restoration, if

possible, and he decided to go upon a buffalo-hunt. He was accompanied

by ten friends and a negro boy, was absent on the prairies about three

months, and during nearly all that time he lived upon buffalo and bear

meat and honey. When he left home he was so weak that he could not mount

his horse without help, and his servant was obliged to carry his gun;

but he returned in splendid health and strength. He killed as many

buffaloes as to fill two large canoes with their hides, which he sent

home by the Red River; had many skirmishes with hostile tribes; and, as

they were constantly on the move over the prairies, they but seldom

spent two nights on the same spot. On one occasion the Captain wandered

away from his friends, and was compelled to spend the night alone. He

selected for his resting-place a spot on the margin of a stream, and

directly at the base of a lofty precipice. He tied his horse to a tree,

and placed before him a pile of nourishing reeds, which the locality

needed; then built himself a fire, made a tent of his blanket, placed

his weapons in convenient positions, and rolled himself up for a

refreshing sleep. And a better rest he never enjoyed. A short time

before daybreak, however, he was awakened by the snorting of his horse;

spoke a word of recognition, and fell to sleep again. He was again

awakened by the uneasy horse, and then it was that he first heard the

howling of wolves. From the woods across the river, from the stream both

above and below, and from the very top of the cliff over his head, he

heard their dismal howling; to his excited mind there were thousands of

them, but they did not trespass any further upon his privacy. With the

rising of the sun the wolves all disappeared; but then, within a few

steps from his sleeping-place, he found no less than three rattle-snakes

coiled up and enjoying a blissful repose; and before recovering from his

consternation, the air, in every direction, became filled with flying

ravens and buzzards. They were so numerous as actually to darken the

sky, and Pitchlynn’s mode of accounting for these strange visitations

was, that a large herd of buffaloes was at that time crossing the

plains, and the wolves and ravens were the vagabond attendants upon the

moving of the herd. The next day he regained his friends.

In 1837, by way of finding out the condition of affairs in the country

west of Arkansas by personal observation, Captain Pitchlynn went upon an

expedition into the Comanchee country. He was accompanied by twenty-two

men, all well mounted, and they were gone three months. After passing

beyond what was called the Cross Timbers, and over an immense prairie,

where the silence was so intense as to sadden the most hilarious, they

came in sight of an encampment of three thousand Comanchees. While yet

two miles away, the party was met by another party of the prairie

Indians, headed by a chief mounted upon a splendid black horse, who

extended the right hand of welcome. While this interview was going on,

the mounted sentinels, who formed an immense circle around the great

encampment, were seen rushing with the utmost speed to the centre of the

circle, as if to prepare for any emergency. On reaching the village the

Choctaws were conducted among the tents to the place for strangers, and

while they saw on every side boys engaged in shooting at targets, girls

playing, and women at work making saddles, not one of all the multitude

would venture to look upon the passing cavalcade, but all pursued their

avocations as if nothing unusual was going on. All the conversation that

transpired was carried on by signs. Pitchlynn and two of his men were

entertained in the tent of the principal chief, and they feasted

gloriously on boiled buffalo. The Choctaws remained a week with their

entertainers, and they formed a league to defend each other from the

Indians of Texas and Mexico during the coming year. Before the visit was

finished one of the Choctaw horses was stolen, and the defiant manner in

which his return was demanded by Pitchlynn made a deep impression upon

the Comanchees—so the animal was returned, and they burnt tobacco on

the ground, by way of proving their respect for the Choctaws. This band

of Comanchees in their persons were generally corpulent, but healthy;

and had with them many Mexican and other prisoners, who were

domesticated. Among them was a white boy who had strayed westward two

years before, and been captured, and whose freedom Captain Pitchlynn

secured at the expense of his favourite pistol, the Comanchee chief

cementing the bargain by throwing in a horse for the boy to ride on his

return out of the wilderness.

Though a lover of peace, there were times when our friend Pitchlynn was

compelled to be somewhat stern in his conduct as a ruler, as the

following incident will prove. In 1838 the Choctaw settlement was

infested by a large gang of horse thieves. To put a stop to their

inroads, chief Pitchlynn offered a large reward to one set of robbers,

if they would capture the other set, and punish them by whipping at the

post. The movement was successful, and the day was one of great

rejoicing among the rulers of the people, and the people themselves,

when the impenitent thieves were flogged by their speculating captors. A

short time afterwards, however, these two opposing parties met in a pass

of the mountains, and had a fight, which was so desperate and bloody

that the entire gang was virtually exterminated, only two or three

escaping to tell the story of the conflict.

Colonel Pitchlynn was always an admirer of Henry Clay, and his first

acquaintance with the great statesman commenced in 1840. The Choctaw was

ascending the Ohio in a steamboat, and at Maysville, during the night,

the Kentuckian came on board, bound to Washington. On leaving his

state-room at a very early hour, Pitchlynn went into the cabin, where he

saw two old farmers earnestly engaged in a talk about farming, and

drawing up a chair listened with great delight for more than an hour.

Returning to his state-room he roused a travelling companion, and told

him what a great treat he had been enjoying, and added—“If that old

farmer with an ugly face had only been educated for the law, he would

have made one of the greatest men in this country.” That “old farmer”

was Henry Clay, and the subsequent consternation of Pitchlynn may be

imagined; and it should be added that the statesman expressed the

greatest satisfaction at the compliment that had been paid him. The

steamboat upon which these fellow-travellers met was afterwards delayed

at the mouth of the Kanawha, and, as was common on such occasions, the

passengers held some mock trials, and improvised a debate on the

relative happiness of single and married life. Mr. Clay consented to

speak, and took the bachelor side of the question, and the duty of

replying was assigned to the Indian. He was at first greatly bewildered,

but recollecting that he had heard Methodist preachers relate their

experiences on religious matters, he thought he would relate his own

experiences of married life. He did this with minuteness and

considerable gusto, laying particular stress upon the goodness of his

wife, and the different shades of feeling and sentiment which he had

enjoyed, and after he had finished, the ladies who happened to be

present and Mr. Clay vied with each other in applauding the talented and

warm-hearted Indian.

When the war of the rebellion commenced in 1861, the subject of our

sketch was in Washington attending to public business for his people,

but immediately hurried home, in the hope of escaping the evils of the

impending strife. Before leaving, however, he had an interview with

President Lincoln, and assured him of his desire to have the Choctaws

pursue a neutral course, to which the President assented as the most

proper one to adopt under the circumstances. But Pitchlynn’s heart was

for the Union, and he made the further declaration that if the General

Government would protect them, his people would certainly espouse the

cause of the Union. He then returned to the South-west, intending to

lead the quiet life of a planter on his estate in the Choctaw country.

But the white men of Arkansas and Texas had already worked upon the

passions of the Choctaws, and on reaching home he found a large part of

the nation already poisoned with the spirit of rebellion. He pleaded for

the National Government, and at the hazard of his life denounced the

conduct of the Southern authorities. Many stories were circulated to

increase the number of his enemies; among them was one that he had

married a sister of President Lincoln, and another that the President

had offered him four hundred thousand dollars to become an abolitionist.

He was sustained, however, by the best men in the nation, who not only

made him colonel of a regiment of militia for home defence, and

afterwards elected him head chief of the nation; but all this did not

prevent two or three of his children, as well as many others in the

nation, from joining the Confederate army. But he himself remained a

Union man during the entire war. Not only had many local positions of

honour been conferred upon him in times past, but he had long been

looked upon by all the Choctaws as their principal teacher in religious

and educational matters, as their philosopher and faithful friend, and

also as the best man to represent their claims and interests as a

delegate to Washington. He had under cultivation, just before the

rebellion, about six hundred acres of land, and owned over one hundred

slaves; and though he annually raised good crops of cotton and corn, he

found the market for them too far off, and was beginning to devote all

his attention to the raising of cattle. His own stock, and that of his

neighbours, was, of course, a prize for the Confederates, who took

everything, and left the country almost desolate. When the Emancipation

Proclamation appeared, he acquiesced without a murmur; managed as well

as he could in the reduced condition of his affairs; and after the war

he was again solicited to revisit Washington as a delegate, in which

capacity he had assigned to his keeping and management a claim for

unpaid treaty-money of several millions of dollars. An address that he

delivered as delegate before the President, at the White House in 1855,

was commented upon at the time as exceedingly touching and eloquent; and

certain speeches that he made before Congressional Committees in 1868,

and especially an address that he delivered in 1869 before a Delegation

of Quakers, called to Washington by President Grant, for consultation on

our Indian affairs, placed him in the foremost rank of orators. William

H. Goode, who was long a missionary among the Southern Indians, gave

this opinion of him in 1863:—“He was a member of the Presbyterian

Church, and esteemed pious; an ardent promoter of learning, morals, and

religion; President of the National Council; and altogether the most

popular and influential man in the Choctaw nation, and, from occasional

notices, I infer that he still maintains his position.”

While it is true that the most populous single tribe of Indians now

living in this country is that of the Cherokees, the Choctaws and

Chickasaws, who form what is known as the Choctaw nation, outnumber the

former by about five thousand, and they claim in the aggregate near

twenty thousand souls. They speak the same language, and have attained a

higher degree of civilisation than any other of the Southern tribes. The

nation is divided into four districts, one of which is composed

exclusively of Chickasaws. Each district was formerly under one chief,

but now they are all ruled by a single chief or governor; and they have

a National Legislative Council. They have an alphabet of their own, and

are well supplied with schools and academies, with churches and

benevolent institutions, and until lately with a daily press, all of

which betoken a gratifying progress in the career of enlightened

prosperity. They are the only tribe which has never, as a whole, been in

hostile collision with, nor been subdued by, the United States. Never

have they broken a promise or violated their plighted faith with the

General Government. What certain individuals may have done during the

late war ought not certainly to be charged against the nation at large.

And here, for the want of a better place, we may, in addition to what

has already been incidentally mentioned, submit a few particulars

respecting the present condition of the Choctaws and Chickasaws. They

claim for their territory that it is as fertile and picturesque as could

be desired. To speak in general terms, it forms the south-east quarter

of what is called the Indian territory. It is about two hundred miles

long by one hundred and thirty wide, forms an elongated square, and

while the Arkansas and Canadian rivers bound it on the north, it joins

the State of Arkansas on the east, and the Red River and Texas bound it

on the south and west. These two nations, now living in alliance,

consider themselves much better off now than they were in the “old

country,” the designation which they love to apply to Mississippi. Their

form of government is similar in all particulars to that of the States

of the Union. While it is true that the rebellion had a damaging effect

upon their prosperity, it cannot be long before they will be restored to

their former prosperous condition. They adopted and supported before the

war a system of what they called “neighbourhood schools,” as well as

seminaries, taught for the most part by ladies from the New England

States, the intention of which was to afford the children a primary

course of instruction, which would fit them for the colleges and

seminaries in the States, to which many pupils have hitherto been

annually sent. The prime mover in all these educational enterprises was

Colonel Pitchlynn, and it is now one of the leading desires of his heart

that the good lady teachers, who were driven off by the war, would

either return themselves, or that a new supply of just such Christian

teachers might be sent out from New England. In his opinion these lady

teachers were the best civilisers who ever visited the Choctaw nation.

To New England clergymen also are the Choctaws indebted for their best

translations of the Scriptures and other religious books. The school

system of the Choctaws, which was eminently prosperous until interfered

with by the rebellion, was founded in 1842. Up to that date, the General

Government undertook to educate that people, and the funds set aside for

that purpose were used by designing parties for their own benefit, or

for local schemes. For the Indians, everything was wrong, and while

Colonel Pitchlynn well knew that he would have to fight an unscrupulous

opposition, he resolved, single-handed, to see if he could have the

School Fund transferred from the United States to the Choctaws. After

many delays, he obtained an interview with John C. Spencer, then

Secretary of War, and was permitted to tell his story. The Secretary

listened attentively, was much pleased, and told the chief he should

have an interview with the President, John Tyler. The speech which he

then delivered in the White House, and before the Cabinet, was

pronounced by those who heard it as truly wonderful. It completely

converted the President, who gave immediate orders that Pitchlynn’s

suggestions should all be carried out. The good Secretary fully

co-operated, and before the clerks of the Indian Office left their desks

that night, all the necessary papers had been prepared, signed, sealed,

and duly delivered. Pitchlynn left Washington with flying colours, and

was one of the happiest men in the land. On reaching the Choctaw country

he was honoured with all the attentions his people knew how to confer;

and on a subsequent Fourth of July he delivered an oration of remarkable

beauty and power, in which he recapitulated the history of their

emigration from Mississippi—comparing his people to the captive Jews by

the waters of Babylon—and after describing their subsequent trials,

urged them to be contented in their new homes, and then set forth at

great length his views on the subject of universal education, the whole

of which, to the minutest particular, were subsequently adopted. The

first academy organised under the new arrangement was named for the then

Secretary of War, and from that year until the death of John C. Spencer,

that wise and warm-hearted lover of the Indians, had not a more devoted

friend than Peter Pitchlynn. At the commencement of the rebellion, the

number of slaves in the Choctaw nation was estimated at three thousand,

and there, in the capacity of Freedmen, are now waiting for the General

Government to keep its promises in regard to their welfare. By a treaty

which was ratified in 1866 they were to be adopted by the Choctaws and

Chickasaws, and those tribes were to receive a bonus of three hundred

thousand dollars; if this stipulation should fail, the Government was to

remove them to some public lands, where they might found a colony; and

as the Indians have thus far failed to adopt the Freedmen, the latter

are patiently waiting for the Government to keep its solemn promises.

These unfortunate people are said to be more intelligent and

self-reliant than many of their race in the Southern States, and it

certainly seems a pity that they should continue in their present

unsatisfactory and disorganised condition. It is due to Colonel

Pitchlynn to state, that from the beginning he advocated the adoption of

the Freedmen, and he has many reasons for believing that during the

coming winter the measure will be carried through. In that event the

Government will be excused for its negligence by paying over the

stipulated sum of money. Ever since the removal of the Choctaws and

Chickasaws to their Western territory, missionaries and school-teachers

have laboured among them with great faithfulness, and the denominations

which have chiefly participated in this good work are the Baptists, the

Methodists, and the Cumberland and Old School Presbyterians. Upon the

whole, the cause of Temperance has been quite as well sustained by them

as by any of the fully civilised people of the Atlantic States. In

certain interior parts of the nation, alcoholic drinks are seldom if

ever seen, but those parts bordering on Arkansas and Texas are

sufficiently civilised to participate in the well-nigh universal curse.

While the Choctaws are very willing to import all the good they can from

the haunts of civilisation, no white man is allowed citizenship among

them unless he marries a Choctaw. Some years ago they concluded to adopt

one man, but during the next winter no less than five hundred petitions

were sent in for the same boon, which were not granted. And here comes

in an anecdote respecting Colonel Pitchlynn. On his way to the Council,

some years ago, he was attacked by a fever, and was obliged to spend

several days with a friend. In a fit of temporary delirium he talked a

great deal about going to Scotland and Germany to bring out a thousand

worthy and good mechanics, and a thousand women, to settle among the

Choctaws, and intermarry with them. On his recovery he was laughed at

for his queer idea, but he replied that whether sane or insane, he was

ready to carry out that identical proposition. He thought it would be a

blessing to his people; but he did not wish to be bothered with the

adventurers and horse thieves from Texas and Arkansas. That there has

always been a want of harmony among this people on all moral, as well as

political questions, cannot be disputed, and the fact may be attributed

to the existence among them of a few influential families, whereby

unprofitable jealousies and a party spirit are kept up, to the

disadvantage of the masses. If there is anything among them which might

be called aristocracy, it consists more in feeling than in outward

circumstances, for all the people live alike in plain but comfortable

log-cabins, and are content with a simple manner of life. Among them may

be found a goodly number of really intellectual men, but it is

undoubtedly true that, so far as all the higher qualities are concerned,

the particular man of whom we have been writing is without a peer, as

was his father during the preceding generation.

To have been the leading intellect among such a people is of course no

ordinary honour, and Colonel Pitchlynn has always cherished with

affectionate pride the history and romantic traditions of his people.

Not only has he accumulated an inexhaustible store of this interesting

lore, but his love of nature is so acute, and his appreciation of the

beautiful so delicate, that his narratives are oftentimes exceedingly

charming. He is indeed the poet of his people; and he has communicated

to the writer many Choctaw legends, stored up in his retentive memory,

which have never appeared in print, and which but for his appreciation

of their beauty would scarcely have been repeated to a white man. For a

few of those legends I refer the reader to my work entitled _A Winter in

the South_.

         *    *    *    *    *

_P.S._—In the month of January 1881 this splendid specimen of one of

nature’s noblemen died at his residence in Washington City, and was

buried in the Congressional Cemetery, with Masonic honours, the poet

Albert Pike having delivered a touching eulogy over his remains.

              ROUND CAPE HORN.

It was the first day of November, and in the city of New York. Among the

people who passed along the outer line of the Battery was a well-grown

youth absorbed in a kind of reverie. He was a confidential clerk in a

first-class counting-house, and his prospects for the future were as

bright as his friends could desire. He was talented, but had a wayward

disposition, and having concluded that the life of a clerk was irksome,

he resolved to visit a friend in Boston, through whose influence he

hoped to obtain a passage to India. On the following day he settled his

affairs with his employers, who treated him with great kindness, and

vainly tried to make him change his plans. On sending his trunk to the

Norwich boat, and while waiting for her departure, he chanced to fall

into conversation with the owner and captain of the ship “Evadne,” just

then getting ready for a voyage to Valparaiso. In that city, the boy

happened to have a sister residing, and having been tempted by the

captain to join him as a kind of clerk or supercargo, he recalled his

trunk from the steamboat, transferred it on board the ship, wrote an

affectionate letter to his parents, and forthwith started for Cape Horn.

From that day, until his subsequent arrival in Boston, he kept a minute

journal of his observations and experiences, and from this

record,—barring all dates, notes on latitude and longitude, and

personal recollections,—have been culled the subjoined particulars.

They refer chiefly to the natural history of the ocean, and the reader

will understand that no attempt has been made to connect the paragraphs,

which were written at widely different places and periods of the voyage.

         *    *    *    *    *

We hauled into the stream on Monday, and weighed anchor on Tuesday. A

portion of the crew came on board very much intoxicated, and though the

captain took the precaution to arm me with a pistol and “slung-shot,” it

was not necessary to use them. The moment we lost sight of Neversink, we

were caught by a heavy gale, and for three days I was terribly sick; but

I soon recovered, and, since then, have been in splendid trim. The wind

was fair; we have had a fine run; are now in a warm climate, and I am

ready to enjoy the wonders of the ocean. I have already seen two whales,

and have caught a dolphin, a flying-fish, and a poor hawk that had taken

refuge in our rigging. The dolphin was nine feet long, and had none of

the brilliant colours attributed to him by poets, but was only black and

white; and if, as a race, they are fond of music, it must be the wild

music which the wind makes in a ship’s rigging, for it was in the midst

of a gale that at least a hundred of them flocked about our ship. They

are associated, as the sailors tell me, by a family tie, with the

grampus, which sometimes attains the length of twenty-five feet, and is

a deadly enemy of the whale. As to my flying-fish, he did not measure

over a foot, and his wing-fins were not less than eight inches in

length. I have been told that it is a dull business to follow the sea,

but I do not think so; the sunrises and sunsets and moonlight nights

would alone pay any man for the longest voyage, and, as for myself, I

can never tire of the “Book of Nature opened wide.” When not studying

the sea and the sky, I employ my time reading, writing, making nautical

calculations, and taking observations, so that the time cannot hang

heavily, if I may but have the control of my mind. In looking over the

manifest of our vessel, I find that we have on board a marble monument

which is to be placed over the grave of a Connecticut man in far-off

Valparaiso. Should it be my lot to die on a foreign shore, will any of

my kindred think enough of me to treat my memory with like respect? We

have on our ship as passenger a young Spaniard, and he and I spend much

of our time teaching each other our several languages.

We have long since passed what is called the Gulf Stream, and are in the

midst of the great Equatorial or Tropical Stream, which is considered by

naturalists the grandest movement of the ocean. This wonderful

phenomenon proceeds from east to west on both sides of the Equator. Off

the coast of Brazil, as the captain tells me, it divides into two great

branch currents, one of which passes to the south-west, and rushing

through the Straits of Magellan and around Cape Horn, loses itself in

the Pacific Ocean; while the other rolls on towards the north, forms the

Gulf Stream in the vicinity of the United States, and then makes a

circle, which touches Newfoundland, the Azores, and the coast of Africa,

until it again reaches the coast of South America. We thus see that the

Equatorial Stream is in reality a whirlpool of prodigious extent; and

when told that the Gulf Stream carries the sediment of the Mississippi

river, so as to scatter it over the “floor of the Northern Atlantic,” we

obtain an idea of the volume of the great river and of the power of the

Gulf Stream, which cannot be fully comprehended.

Intimately associated with the foregoing are the celebrated Trade Winds.

They are met with between the Tropics, are permanent, follow the same

direction all the year, and their limits are the parallels of

twenty-eight degrees of north and south latitude. They are known as the

“North-east and South-east Trades,” and between them calms and fogs

abound. They were discovered by Columbus, and their origin was first

explained by George Hadley, his theory being that they are founded on

the rarefaction of the atmosphere of the torrid zone, by the powerful

heat to which that region is subject. They derive their name from the

facilities which they afford to commerce; and the mariners have always

been delighted to be within their range, because of their genial

influences, and their power in promoting the most transparent

atmosphere, sunsets of surpassing splendour, and the unapproachable

brilliancy of unclouded skies.

We had a severe storm last night. It is indeed a fearful thing to be

thus cuffed about like a log of wood upon the waters. What with the

leaping and the plunging of the ship, the roaring of the winds and

waves, the shouting of the men when taking in sail, the trumpet blasts

of the captain, and the intense darkness, we had a tolerably

disagreeable time; but all these things only combine to give the

“landlubber” such thoughts and feelings as he could never dream of on

the peaceful shore. In spite of all that I have had to do, I have taken

time to think of home, and the many loved ones far, far away. How

distinctly, through all the gloom, have I seen the place where I was

born, with its romantic hills and very beautiful streams! I feel myself

to be quite plucky, but these thoughts will make my lips quiver, and yet

my confidence is in God.

At this present writing we are exactly on the line of the Equator. The

heat which now prevails is simply fearful. This thing called the Line

was first crossed by the Portuguese in 1471, and I do not think it

strange that the ancients should have considered the equatorial regions

of the earth uninhabitable by man. If it were not for the constant

showers, which come upon us with astonishing suddenness, it would be

unendurable by northern constitutions. I wear nothing but shirt and

pantaloons, never think of occupying my berth, but during the whole

night flounder about on the deck very much like a bear in his cage.

During the whole of yesterday our ship’s pathway lay through immense

fields of floating sea-weed or _algæ_. Where it all came from none could

conjecture; it was, perhaps, the result of a continuous storm on a

rock-bound coast one or two thousand miles away. In its variety, as well

as in its beauty, this marine botany or vegetation of the ocean is as

wonderful and complete as that of the land, and different temperatures

and localities have their diversified species. I have myself seen

specimens that were as fine as a woman’s hair, and as delicate as

gossamer; our captain says he has seen rolls of it floating on the water

at the Falkland Islands as large as a man’s body, and two hundred feet

long; and on the authority of the navigator Cook, we know that at the

Desolation Islands specimens have been found that were not less than

three hundred and sixty feet in length; while a scientific man named

Lamouroux asserted that there was a species of sea-weed with a stem

eight hundred feet long. On the score of colour it is exceedingly

various, but the prevailing tints are green, brown, olive, and red; and

as to its value, I suppose it is only beginning to be appreciated as the

foundation of many chemical commodities. In some parts of the world,

moreover, it is so thick on rocky reefs as actually to be a protection

to the ships as they sail in unknown regions; and the marine meadows

among the Azores and near the Bahama Islands have a world-wide

reputation. With regard to the living creatures which it harbours and

supports, their extent is simply wonderful.

To-day the water around our ship was perfectly alive with thousands of

porpoises, cutting all sorts of capers. They have, indeed, as their name

implies, a piggish cast of countenance, and are decidedly original in

one of their habits. We succeeded in harpooning two or three, and I saw

verified the story that when one of them has been wounded so as to lose

any blood, his beloved brethren pounce upon him and eat him up without

mercy. But after all, in this particular they do not differ very much

from some of the human race that I wot of; for when a man makes a single

stumble in his life, his fellow-beings are very apt to help him along to

destruction with their jeers and unkind words. Some of the sailors on

board entertain the queer notion that all the porpoises in the ocean are

descended from the herd of swine spoken of in Scripture which were

driven into the sea. These creatures always swim in schools, and, like

the wild geese, always have a leader, and move in the form of a

triangle.

I saw under full sail, this morning, what the sailors call a Portuguese

man-of-war. It is a fish which can hoist a little sail at will, and

shoot away just like a real ship. What they call the sail has a gossamer

appearance, and is very brilliant in colour; and when the little fellow

is frightened, the way he “takes in sail” and dives out of sight is

exceedingly interesting. This creature belongs to the family of

jelly-fishes; its transparent body, when fully extended, is frequently a

foot in diameter, and from under it depends a long lock of bluish

tendrils, which are said to be its sucking tubes and weapons of defence.

This appendage is sometimes fifteen feet long, and is trailed through

the water like a net, and the rapidity with which it can be immediately

collected in a small lump is truly amazing; its object is said to be to

capture the fish upon which it feeds, its favourite game being the

flying-fish and bonita, which it has the power of poisoning; and I can

testify, from personal experience, that the effect of handling the

creature is to pain and temporarily paralyse the arm.

The phosphorescence of the sea I last night witnessed in great

perfection. In every direction the waves seemed to be on fire, and the

spectacle was one which afforded me intense pleasure, although said to

be the certain harbinger of a storm. The flames, as they appeared to be,

were both red and blue, and at times so very bright as almost to afford

light enough to read. This phenomenon is said to be caused by a variety

of living gelatinous creatures, and also by certain kinds of fishes, as

well as by putrefying organic matter. In looking over my books of poetry

I find that Crabbe and Byron both described the wonder, but neither of

them approached the marvellously accurate description of Coleridge,

which I copy from his “Ancient Mariner:”—

       “Beyond the shadow of the ship

         I watched the water-snakes;

        They moved in tracks of shining white,

        And, when they rear’d, the elfish light

         Fell off in hoary flakes.

       “Within the shadow of the ship

         I watch’d their rich attire—

        Blue, glossy green, and velvet black—

        They coil’d and swam, and every track

         Was a flash of golden fire.”

Christmas night! and my thoughts are with the loved ones at _home_! When

the sun went down there was not a single object to be seen upon the

waters in any direction, and in the air not a single gull or any other

bird. I must confess this was rather impressive; and finding that I

could only keep my spirits above zero by talking, I have been very busy

in that line with the officers of the ship. The captain is an

exceedingly kind-hearted man, and treats me as if I were his son; but

the chief mate has seen more of the world, and here is a bit of his

conversation. He was a petty officer on board the “Great Republic”

during her service in the Crimea, and happened to be an eye-witness of

the battle of Inkerman. He says the charter-money paid by the British

Government amounted to twenty thousand dollars per month, and that her

cargo on one occasion amounted to fifteen hundred horses (seven hundred

of which were Arabians) and thirty-five hundred soldiers. She also did a

large business in conveying the sick and wounded from Sebastopol to

Constantinople, and was employed by the English for seventeen months. In

his opinion Constantinople is one of the meanest cities in the world,

with few handsome buildings excepting the mosques, and with streets that

are only disgraceful to the Turkish Government.

To-day we captured a very large shark. He was of the white variety, and

measured nearly twenty feet in length. The captain says he has known

them half as long again. We had great difficulty, after harpooning him,

to get him alongside of the ship, so that we might have a good look at

his royal ugliness. We had no use for him, and so we studied his anatomy

and then threw him into the sea again. We took out his heart, with its

various belongings, and forty minutes after we did this its pulsations

could be distinctly felt thumping the hand that pressed it. Among the

stories which the sailors have narrated in regard to this tyrant of the

ocean, I note the following:—First, that when the mother shark is

afraid of losing her offspring, she swallows them to secure their

safety, disgorging them when the danger is past; also, that in the

pilot-fish it has a friend that sticketh closer than a brother, and that

they have been known to travel together for weeks; and while the shark

profits by the engineering qualities of the pilot-fish, the latter has a

good time enjoying the fragments of spoil which the tyrant does not

require for his support. The sailors also believe that while some

varieties of the shark family are viviparous and bring forth their young

alive, other varieties bring forth their young in those horny cases

called mermaid’s purses, which are so frequently picked up in a dry

state along the shores of Long Island Sound.

Last night one of those gales which the captain calls a Pampero burst

upon us, and we had a very exciting time. He says they belong to the

monsoon family; that they get their name from the fact that they have

their birth among the snowy Andes, and after sweeping across the great

arid plains, or pampas, of South America, become hurricanes on the

Atlantic; and that they are the sure harbingers of health, although

their effect on land and sea is frequently terrific.

This is the first day of the New Year, and the air, the sea, and the sky

are perfectly delightful to the feelings and the vision. Just before the

old year left us, the captain was on the watch, and by way of getting up

a small excitement, he stole into the cabin, and, placing his trumpet

near my ear, shouted, “I wish you a happy New Year!” It was fun to him

and the officers, but the unearthly sound very nearly frightened me out

of my skin. The effect of the row upon our Spanish passenger was very

laughable. He thought there was a murder going on, and the way he ran

about the cabin with nothing on but his shirt, crying out, “What’s the

matter? what’s the matter?” was quite equal to a first-class play.

To-day the captain reports that we are off the coast of Patagonia, and

near the Straits of Magellan; and as one of the crew visited that

country and passed through the Straits a few years ago, I have been

pumping him for information, with the following result:—It is a wild

and uncultivated country, and sparsely populated by a race of Indians

who, though finely formed and large, are not in keeping with the

accounts of the early travellers. The Atlantic coast is level, while

that on the Pacific is mountainous and well wooded, and the winters are

long and bitter cold. It gets its name from the original inhabitants,

who were called Patagons; and besides the bow and arrows, the present

inhabitants employ a ball fastened to a thong of hide as their most

effective and deadly weapon. As to the Straits of Magellan, which

connect the two oceans, they were so named after the explorer who first

navigated them in 1520. They extend more than three hundred miles from

east to west, varying in width from five to fifty miles, and abound in

spacious bays; and while the entrance from the Atlantic is fifteen miles

wide, that on the Pacific side is about twenty in width, and is a

favourite resort of sea-lions. The tide rises about fifty feet and runs

with great rapidity, and in opposite directions; and although some

vessels have passed through in three weeks, others have been detained

for four months. The Spaniards once planted a colony of four hundred men

at one point, all of whom were abandoned to starvation and death, and

the appropriate name was afterward given to it of Port Famine. In 1850 a

colony of one hundred and fifty Germans formed a small settlement within

the Straits, which they called the Harbour of Mercy. A portion of the

scenery belongs to the Norwegian type, one of the mountains, called

Mount Tarn, rising more than three thousand feet, and having pointed

offshoots covered with perpetual snow; while the river Sedger, which

comes from the north, runs through extensive forests of beech and pine,

and is blocked up at its mouth with an incredible quantity of

drift-wood. In 1831 the Straits were surveyed by the British Government,

and the charts subsequently published have done much to improve the

navigation of that inhospitable region.

The southern boundary of the Straits consists of a large cluster of

islands, large and small, and called Tierra del Fuego, because of one or

two volcanoes. On the southern side of the group, and running inside of

Staten Land Island, is a strait called Le Maire, where the coast scenery

is particularly grand.

During the past week the birds have greatly multiplied in our vicinity,

and I have seen with great pleasure the famous albatross. It closely

resembles a goose in shape; its prevailing colour is white, diversified

with black and grey, and it is sometimes so large as to measure twelve

feet between the tips of the wings. On account of its size, it is called

the monarch of the sea, as well as the man-of-war bird; it possesses the

traits of a highway robber, and because of its gluttony is frequently

stigmatised as the vulture of the ocean. It rises from the water with

difficulty, but when once on the wing it glides over the rolling billows

with exquisite grace, soaring high in the air with perfect grandeur; and

the manner in which it is wont to face the fiercest gales elicits the

heartiest admiration. It will follow in the wake of a ship for weeks,

and this is perhaps the secret of its introduction into poetry; but why

the killing of it should have brought such tribulation and woe upon the

“Ancient Mariner” of Coleridge will always be a mystery. It is said to

be partial to the stormy regions of Cape Horn and the Cape of Good Hope;

seems to be the sworn enemy of the whole race of booby-birds; and yet,

when seen fast asleep, with its head under its wings, on the unbroken

waves, one would imagine it a lover of peace and to be as innocent as

the dove. A favourite breeding-place for these birds is the Auckland

Islands. With one exception, it is the only bird found on the high seas

at every distance from the land. The exception alluded to is the Stormy

Petrel, which, I am surprised to learn, is called the crow of the ocean.

This, of all web-footed birds, is the smallest known to naturalists; and

although often seen in the Southern hemisphere, it does not here follow

in the wake of sailing vessels, as is the habit of its northern kindred;

and like the auk, the puffin, the guillemot, and fulmer, it lays but one

egg during the breeding season, and that upon a naked rock. The several

varieties of the albatross commonly known to seamen are as follows:—the

sooty, the dusky, the wandering, the short-tailed, and the yellow-nosed

albatross; while the common petrels are known as the stormy,

forked-tailed, and the white and black petrels, as well as Mother

Carey’s chickens.

When we left New York, the captain tells me, he had a sufficient amount

of provisions to last eighteen months; for, during a previous voyage in

the Pacific, he had spent seventy-eight days beating about Cape Horn,

and he did not wish to be starved to death. And this reminds me of our

style of living on ship-board. The sailors have all they want in the way

of salt beef and pork, beans, mush, and navy bread, with coffee and tea

every day; they have no table or knives or forks, but feed like animals

out of a “mess-kid,” each one putting in his thumb and pulling out

anything but a plum; and when two men sometimes happen to seize the same

piece of “salt-horse” or bone of contention, they have a jolly row. In

the cabin we have everything as nice as circumstances will allow,

including hot bread every day, with pickles and puddings and soups; one

of the latter being more of a mockery than suits my taste.

We spoke a ship to-day, bound to Boston, from Valparaiso. She started

for the former port a few days after I did the same thing, and _I think

will get there before me_. As she faded away on the northern horizon,

she looked indeed like a phantom of the deep, and although alone—all,

all alone—I knew that before midnight she would be well freighted with

_dreams_; dreams of much-loved and far distant friends.

Last night, after a day that was fifteen hours and forty minutes long,

was lovely beyond the power of words to describe. We had a gentle

breeze; the sky was without a cloud, and when the moon rose at ten

o’clock it was red as blood. I was on deck until daybreak, and after one

of the officers and I had regaled ourselves on red herrings and pickled

pigs’ feet, we abandoned this swinish business and devoted ourselves to

astronomy; and if, by remaining on this side of the equator, I could

always thus rise from the ridiculous to the sublime, I would not care

ever to return. The starry novelties of this Southern hemisphere, all of

which it has been my privilege to look upon, are especially interesting.

The _Southern Cross_, as it is called, is composed of four stars; large,

but of varying magnitude; and although very beautiful in themselves, the

idea associated with them is one that appeals to the most sacred and

sublime emotions of the soul. They are always looked upon as a token of

peace; and as they indicate, according to their position, the hours of

the night, there is to my mind something very poetical in the custom

which prevails among many of the South Americans, as I am informed, of

shouting at night, in their lone wanderings over the hills and plains—

      “Midnight is past, the Cross begins to bend.”

The stars known as the _Magellan Clouds_ are nebulous in their

character, and there are three distinct clusters. And what we read of as

the _Northern Crown_ is composed of seven stars encircling two-thirds of

an oval figure. But the _Southern Cross_ in its distinctness and beauty

eclipses all the other constellations ever discovered, and no wonder

that Mrs. Hemans was inspired to write that admirable poem on this

wonder of the heavens, which concludes as follows:—

    “But thou to my thoughts art a pure blazing shrine,

     A fount of bright hopes, and of visions divine;

     And my soul, like an eagle, exulting and free,

     Soars high o’er the Andes to mingle with thee.”

Of all those who have a right to talk about the delights of home, none

can excel the New England boy, when he is a wanderer upon the ocean. The

times are very frequent when I feel like shedding tears in my

loneliness, but whenever I think of a song my sisters used to sing,

about some poor fellow who had died “upon a foreign shore,” I become a

veritable child in my weakness. Home! what a precious word, and how

sacred are its memories! The very house, with its cosy rooms, where we

were born, the neighbouring hills over which we frolicked after

chestnuts and blackberries, the lovely river and charming lakes where we

sported as anglers, and the books we were wont to read to our beautiful

playmates and companions—how do they live in perpetual freshness!

Whatever a man may lose in his hostile battle with the world, he never

can become so hardened as not to think sometimes of his early home. Of

my own home I never tire of thinking, and when I contrast its pleasures

and many lessons of virtue with those I have experienced elsewhere, the

latter always sink into insignificance. But it is when I think of the

manner in which I have trifled with my own home, and with the affections

of my dear parents and sisters, that my poor heart is bowed to the very

dust, and I feel that I deserve all the severest pangs of home-sickness

and the evils which follow in the pathway of a wayward, heedless, and

extravagant life. I can only hope and constantly pray that God will have

mercy upon me, and make me an honour to my name.

Yesterday, which was Sunday, by request of the captain, I read aloud a

portion of the morning service in the Prayer-Book, and then, for my own

enjoyment, a sermon by Jeremy Taylor, and several of the heart-touching

poems of Robert Burns. The captain has an ear for music, and we had a

large amount of very good psalm-singing. We concluded the day with a

regular feast of Yankee “dough-nuts,” made under the immediate direction

of the captain, and, as the sun went down over the far-off Andes in

unspeakable glory, the day was very enjoyable. Early this morning we saw

an iceberg; it was white as snow, and the captain says not less than one

hundred and fifty feet high. It formed a grand and beautiful picture,

which I can never forget; and thus you see that within the last

twenty-four hours there has been no monotony in our occupations nor in

what we have seen.

To-day we saw a very large dead whale floating upon the waters, and I

should imagine a million of birds were in the full enjoyment of the rare

banquet. Of course, a long talk followed on the subject of whales, as

two of the officers had served their time as whalemen. To those who go

down to the sea in ships, it is well known that the carcasses of whales

are frequently seen floating far out on the ocean, or stranded on the

shore; but it is not so generally known how these monsters come to die.

Man is the worst enemy of the whale, but he always preserves his spoil;

the sword-fish is the second worst enemy of leviathan; but the creature

that claims the third rank as an ocean-butcher is a fish called the

_Killer_. He is occasionally sufficiently large to yield ten barrels of

oil, has a sharp nose, two very large and wing-like fins; and out of his

back grows another fin, which, when the fish is swimming near the

surface, projects three or four feet out of the water, and somewhat

resembles a moving post. Now it is said that to this fish the habits of

the whale are well known, and when the former is on his feeding-ground,

and has arranged his huge mouth as a kind of trap to catch the shrimp

and other aquatic creatures, the killer watches his chance, and suddenly

seizing the tongue of the whale, tears it out with great violence, which

exploit terminates in a gorgeous feast for the killer, and in the

untimely death of the whale!! By some, this fish is said to belong to

the shark family; but by others it is considered a relative of the

grampus. The whale naturally has a horror of them, and when a mother is

accompanied by her young, and happens to discover one of these

“killers,” she at once places them on her back, and then swims so near

the surface that, for a time, the offspring are entirely out of the

water. The variety here alluded to is the black, or right whale of the

Pacific, which also has a habit of protecting its young when in danger,

by shielding them under its fins, while the sperm whale is more selfish

by nature, and always seems unconcerned about the fate of its offspring.

The “killers” sometimes swim in schools, and when thus leagued together

have been known to attack and capture a wounded or dead whale at the

very moment when the whalemen were about to secure the prize for which

they had long struggled. But more curious than the above is the

subjoined story, told by one of my companions:—

He was on his way from San Francisco to Panama, when, one pleasant day,

a large “sulphur-bottom whale” suddenly made his appearance alongside of

his ship, now on one quarter, and then on the other, and sometimes

within five yards of the vessel. After blowing two or three times, he

would pass under the ship and rub his back against the keel, and this he

continued to do for several days. The sailors had never heard of such

doings before, and were somewhat troubled. Some of the passengers amused

themselves by shooting bullets into the monster, and although they drew

blood, he would not go away. On his back were clinging a number of small

fish, which they called suckers. Day after day and night after night,

the huge creature kept on his way, as if he were an appendage to the

ship. After this intimacy had lasted twenty days, and the fish had

followed the vessel full two thousand miles, a large school of cow-fish

or porpoises made their appearance, and also a devil-fish, when the

whale made a few tumbles into their midst, and the whole lot of strange

creatures disappeared from view for ever.

The announcement was made, to-day, that we had “sighted” Cape Horn.

Whether true or not, we have certainly _sighted_ a rousing gale, a heavy

snow-storm, another storm of hail and rain, very cold weather, several

large whales, any number of white porpoises, a large whale-ship dashing

gloriously through the foam, and a big commotion generally. We have been

doing a great deal of what they call “standing off and standing on,” but

it has not been a stationary business. The particular spot called Cape

Horn is a lofty and desolate rock forming the southern extremity of

Hermit Island, and belonging to the Tierra del Fuego group of islands.

We were two or three times in close proximity to the Cape, but found it

expedient to keep a respectful distance. We had one experience of what

are called “long-footed swells,” but, generally speaking, the waters

were a “Hell Gate” on a magnificent scale. To “double Cape Horn” means

to sail entirely around it, and not merely to pass it; and this feat was

first performed in 1616 by a navigator named Schouten of _Hoorn_ in

Holland. From his native place the Cape obtained its name. It was on one

of the many islands in the immediate vicinity of Cape Horn that the

great navigator Cook admired the remarkable harmony reigning among the

different species of mammifera and birds, and which he described in

substance as follows: “The sea-lions occupied the greatest part of the

sea-coast, the bears the inland; the shags were posted on the highest

cliffs, the penguins in such places as had the best access to the sea,

and the other birds chose more retired places. Occasionally, however,

all these animals were seen to mix together, like domestic cattle and

poultry in a farm-yard, without one attempting to hurt the other in the

least. Even the eagles and the vultures were frequently seen sitting

together on the hills among the shags, while none of the latter, either

old or young, appeared to be disturbed by their presence. No doubt the

poor fishes had to pay for the touching union of this happy family.”

We arrived at Valparaiso this afternoon. It took us about twenty days to

get entirely around the Horn; it is now one hundred and twenty-six days

since we left New York, and we have sailed not less than thirteen

thousand six hundred and ninety miles, although by direct measurement

the distance is only four thousand and three hundred miles.

The present is the last day of my four months’ sojourn in Valparaiso. Of

course, I have been rambling about the country to some extent, and the

substance of my observations may be summed up as follows: One of my

visits was to an estate about twenty miles from the city, which consists

of three thousand acres without a wall or fence upon it, and upon which

I saw not fewer than one thousand cows, with a large number of sheep and

horses. I went out with the son of the owner—a Spaniard—and on

horseback, and enjoyed myself amazingly. We had to pass over a range of

mountains where the roads were so narrow that my legs were frequently

scraped against the rocky cliffs, and on reaching the estate or

hacienda, I found it to be a perfectly level plain; and the place in

some particulars, and especially its remoteness, reminded me of the

happy valley where Rasselas resided, as recorded by Dr. Johnson. The

people who work upon it are called peons—in reality a variety of

slaves—and the cluster of reed cabins in which they live are known as

ranchos. Although the raising of cattle for butchering was the chief

business, the estate was well supplied with vineyards, wheat fields, and

orchards or fruit gardens. Connected with this hacienda was a kind of

shop or country store, called bodegon; and from what I had myself seen

and been told, this particular estate was a fair sample of those to be

found in all the more settled parts of Chili. Some of them, however, are

much larger, and contain as many as twenty thousand head of cattle. They

give employment here to an extensive class of men called _vaqueros_, or

herdsmen, who are continually roaming on horseback among the cattle,

while grazing upon the hills or in the forests. One of the most notable

pictures that I witnessed consisted of a flock of condors feasting upon

a dead horse; and another was of a corral of five thousand head of

cattle in charge of not less than fifty horsemen. Of regular Indians, or

aborigines, I saw none, but my friend told me there were not less than

fifteen tribes in the Republic. On our way home, I enjoyed some very

imposing mountain views, and was informed that the highest of the

Chilian Andes was named _Tupungato_, and attained an elevation of nearly

twenty-three thousand feet.

I have also made a flying visit to Santiago, which is not only the seat

of government of Chili, but a somewhat flourishing city of eighty

thousand inhabitants. Although considered at the foot of the Andes, it

is, nevertheless, one thousand eight hundred and fifty feet above the

ocean, and is admirably located on the Mapocho River. If it had been in

the hands of any other people, it would not have taken three hundred

years to reach its present population. It is the centre of an extensive

mineral region, abounding in gold, silver, and copper, and is well

supported by an agricultural country. It is a jolly sort of place, and

its people are polite and musical, and sufficiently intelligent to

possess a public library with twenty-five thousand volumes, such as they

are. It is thirty-two Spanish leagues from Valparaiso, and by the tough

horses of the country the journey is made in one day. On the score of

horsemanship, no people can excel the Chilians; but they treat their

horses badly, which trait, to my mind, is characteristic of Spanish

blood. In their frivolity and want of sense, they will make more fuss

over a fancy saddle than over a beautiful horse. The prevailing religion

is Roman Catholic, and its customs cast a more depressing shadow upon

society than do the mountains upon the streets of the city. The scenery,

in every direction, is very beautiful, but especially so at the sunset

hour, when the mountain peaks are clothed in the colours of the rainbow.

Taken as a whole, however, Santiago, in spite of its novelties and the

wonderful country which hems it in, is just one of those places where I

would not spend my days if it were given to me in fee-simple.

And now for a passing word about Valparaiso. It was, originally, merely

the seaport for Santiago, but is now abundantly able to hold its own as

a city of fifty thousand souls. It lies on the declivity of a high hill,

and overlooks a handsome bay. It derives its name from _Va-al-Paraiso_,

or _Go to the Paradise_, which is what the earliest settlers used to say

to strangers, when they wished them to visit their capital—Santiago.

The commerce of the port is well represented by the four nationalities

of France, England, Germany, and the United States. Business is

thriving, and the society is really enjoyable. At the present time, the

most noted novelty of the town is an affair called _The Fabrica_, and

established by William P. Williams, of New York. It is a kind of

universal manufacturing establishment, where useful articles, composed

of wood and iron, are turned out to an extent that is simply amazing. I

cannot give the total number of his operations, but I know that he

brought out from Connecticut and New York, at one time, a party of not

less than fifty first-class mechanics. The establishment has done much

to increase the household comforts of the people in these parts, and I

trust is making lots of money for its owner.

It was while carrying on his extensive shipping interests in the Pacific

that he accidentally visited Valparaiso, and one of his first thoughts

was the creation of the Fabrica. The harbour of Valparaiso is not a safe

one, and at times the shipping suffers severely from what are called

_Northers_. Vessels are frequently wrecked directly in front of the

city, and it is quite common to hear the minute-guns at sea during a

gale. The city supports a large barometer in the City Exchange, from the

top of which a signal is elevated, which tells the seamen in port to

“look out for bad weather.” Notwithstanding all this, it is a favourable

resort for the men-of-war of all nations, where they are always

abundantly furnished with supplies. It is a little singular that there

is a point of the city which they call “Cape Horn,” while it is asserted

that, without any real authority, the Government of Chili claims the

veritable Cape Horn as within its jurisdiction.

But I must not forget the earthquakes of this Castilian country. They

are very common and very terrible, but it is said the local accounts

have often been exaggerated. Familiarity with them never breeds

contempt, for the people of to-day seem to dread them more than did

their ancestors three hundred years ago. Some of the Chilian cities have

been destroyed by them two or three times; and it is said of them that,

besides destroying an immense amount of property and many lives, they

are also frequently detrimental to the public health, by changing the

surface of the country and poisoning the vegetation. I am fond of

collecting curiosities, but do not think that I shall carry off an

earthquake.

At sea again. And now I hope to reach Boston without any further

detention, growing out of my deplorable habit of wandering by the

wayside. My present ship is the “Crusader,” and the money I chanced to

make as clerk or supercargo has now been presented to its captain, as a

return for his kindness in receiving me as a passenger.

Once more off Cape Horn: and I have to-day celebrated the event by

stepping over the line which separates youth from manhood. I have

reached the age of twenty-one, and hope to put away all childish habits.

An hour ago a splendid English frigate passed us bound to the Pacific,

and as we dipped our ensign she gave us the glorious music of Yankee

Doodle; and at this moment there are five additional ships in full view.

It is twenty days since we left Valparaiso, and having stopped at one or

two out-of-the-way ports, I will describe them briefly. The first was

Talcahuano, which is considered the best port on the coast of Chili; it

is on the Bay of Concepcion, and has about five thousand inhabitants. It

bears the same relative position to the city of Concepcion that

Valparaiso does to Santiago. Concepcion, however, is only nine miles

from the sea, contains about ten thousand inhabitants, and while it

possesses many advantages for business, and is the centre of a very rich

mineral region, it has, from time immemorial, suffered from the warfare

of hostile Indians, having been pillaged by them on four occasions, and

three times, at least, has it been destroyed by earthquakes. It is

flanked by some of the finest forests in the world, and yet much of the

lumber used in building is brought from the United States. During our

stay at Talcahuano, I made a visit to the neighbouring island of

Quiriquina, where I had a talk with its one solitary male inhabitant,

who, as a shepherd, was attending to a flock of one thousand sheep. He

had his family with him in a small hut, and was about as happy a man as

I saw on the Pacific coast.

At this present writing we are anchored in the port of Stanley, among

the Falkland Islands, two hundred and fifty miles north-east from Cape

Horn, to the right of which the “Evadne” passed on her way to

Valparaiso. It is said that these islands number not less than two

hundred, but there are only two of any great size, and these, upon the

map, look as much like a pair of spiders as anything else. They are,

respectively, eighty and eighty-five miles long, and from forty to fifty

in width. The bays, and sounds, and harbours which encircle them are

enough to mystify a weak-headed man. Towards the north the land is

elevated to the extent of more than two thousand feet, but on the south

it is almost level with the ocean; they are without any trees, and

present the appearance of moorland covered with grass and lichens, and

watered by many small streams, and are desolate enough to satisfy the

most desperate anchorite, but the climate is very agreeable, equable,

and without any extremes of heat or cold. The land is admirably adapted

to grazing, and cattle-raising is the leading business; in several of

the islands wild horses are found in abundance; seals of various kinds

and any number of birds frequent all the shores; and the little port of

Stanley is a favourite resort for the ships of all nations. These

islands were discovered by Davis in 1592, are considered the key to the

Pacific Ocean, and belong to the Government of Great Britain.

To-day I witnessed one of those wonderful displays known as

water-spouts. It came up about a mile from our ship, seemed to be about

twice as high, and in shape resembled an hour-glass. The sea was quite

calm at the time, and in various directions on the horizon we could see

showers of rain. The spectacle lasted about twenty minutes, and this is

what the sailors have told me about them:—The spouts are formed by two

currents of air, which meet and suck up the water into a kind of cone,

when the vapours, which are thus produced, rise into the upper air like

a lily, and thus produce the hour-glass appearance. They are frequently

accompanied by flashes of lightning, and sometimes emit a sulphurous

odour. They are considered dangerous, for if one should happen to burst

near a ship, she would be filled with water in an instant. After the

spout had disappeared, a stiff breeze sprang up, and we had a sunset

that was indescribably brilliant and grand.

It is now just three hundred and forty days since I started from New

York for Boston, during which period I sailed not less than twenty-seven

thousand miles, and at four o’clock this afternoon the good “Crusader”

dropped her anchor within a mile of the Bunker Hill monument. To say

that I am thankful would seem like trifling, and it is not necessary. My

recent experiences have given me many new views of the wonderful

goodness and power of God, and this truth is one which I cannot too

highly estimate.

As a sequel to the above, it may be well enough to append the following.

The voyage to Valparaiso made by our young adventurer was, as might have

been expected, only the precursor to a more elaborate voyage around the

world. When the rebellion commenced in 1861, he happened to be in this

country, and was not slow in offering his services in defence of the

grand old flag. He entered the rank and file of the army, under an

assumed name, served with fidelity as a corporal, until wounded at Cold

Harbour, after which he was occupied for a year as a quartermaster’s

clerk; tiring of that employment, he solicited from President Lincoln an

appointment in the navy, in his real name, as a master’s mate, and was

immediately transferred from the army to a small vessel on the Lower

Potomac, in which he performed much hard duty, and rendered many

services of value, until the close of the war; after which he went to

sea in at least two of our naval vessels, and circumnavigated the globe;

and after his many wanderings, while on his way from Cuba to this

country, he was attacked by the yellow fever, died in less than three

days, and was buried in the ocean, which he loved with an unconquerable

passion. And that wild rover of the sea, and most noble-hearted boy, was

the only brother of the present writer.

               MONTAUK POINT.

My first pilgrimage to Montauk Point, or Montaukett, was made in 1858,

since which time I have frequently re-visited it, and always with

renewed pleasure. My favourite mode of reaching it has been by yacht and

fishing smack; but the route by steamboat to Sag Harbour is full of

interest; and so also is the journey by railway from New York city,

through the lovely garden-farms of Long Island, by the way of Greenport,

Sag Harbour, and East Hampton. I have sketched its scenery and manifold

attractions both with pencil and pen, and I now propose to submit a

summary of my observations.

That portion of Long Island known as Montauk Point, or the _Place of the

Manito Tree_, consists of nine thousand acres, and, excepting a small

Indian reservation, is owned in common by the farmers of East Hampton

and Bridgehampton, having been purchased of the Montauk tribe of Indians

more than two hundred years ago. Among the peculiar features of the old

deeds or treaties was this:—“That the Rev. Thomas James and his two

associates should have exclusive right to all the whales that might be

driven upon the shore, while the natives reserved the privilege of

having ‘all the fins and tails.’” The property is divided and

sub-divided into shares, and is used from April to December almost

exclusively as a grazing domain, and the cattle and horses and sheep

which spend their summers there may be counted by the thousand. The

number of shares, which are divided into eighths, is now thirty-four;

and as each eighth is valued at five hundred dollars, we find the total

value of the property to be one hundred and fifty-two thousand dollars.

Near its centre, or three miles from the extreme point, and midway

between Long Island Sound and the ocean, which are here only one mile

and a half apart, is located a rude but comfortable farm-house, whose

occupant is placed there by election, and whose duties as herdsman are

to look after the stock owned by the farmers generally. The present

occupant of this position is a worthy man named Samuel T. Stratton; but

when I first visited it (in 1858), Patrick T. Gould was the occupant, as

he had been for nine years before, and a more obliging and agreeable

family than his, with his three stalwart sons, was never met with by

summer tourists, and a better table than was that of our amiable hostess

can only exist in dreams. Besides the farm-house just mentioned, another

three miles further inward, where a second herdsman named Osborne is

stationed, and the lighthouse, the only habitable buildings on the

promontory are those belonging to a small remnant of Indians, clustered

on the northern shore on what are called the Indian Fields. As may be

supposed, therefore, the leading artificial feature of the region is the

lighthouse. It was built in 1799, of red sandstone brought from

Connecticut by one John M‘Comb, at a cost of twenty-five thousand

dollars. It stands within a few hundred paces of the extreme eastern

point of Long Island—a spot called by the Indians _Wamponomon_. The

turf above which it rises is eighty feet above high tide, and its

lantern eighty-six feet from the ground. For fifty-three years it

performed its office, after the fashion of the olden times, during which

period it was surmounted by the effigy of an Indian’s head; but in 1849

the Government thought proper to dress it up with modern improvements at

a cost of eleven thousand dollars, so that the prospects have been much

brightened. The very complete and beautiful lantern now there was a

present from the French Government, and has its history. When it arrived

in this country, the collector of New York was not informed as to its

destination, and after the lapse of a certain time he had it sold to pay

the duty; and having been purchased for seventy dollars by a lover of

auction elephants, that person subsequently sold it to the Government

for nine hundred, and it was assigned to Montauk.

The lighthouse has now been on duty about seventy-four years, and the

names of the men—most of them good men and true—who have been its

keepers are Jacob Hand, Henry Baker, Patrick T. Gould (who occupied the

position for nearly eighteen years), John Hobert, Silas P. Lopez, Jason

M. Terbel, Jonathan E. Paine, William S. Gardiner, Joseph Stanton, J. A.

Miller, and Thomas P. Ripley, the present incumbent. In former times the

dwelling of the keeper stood in a little hollow, back of the lighthouse,

and his pay was three hundred and fifty dollars per annum; at present

his dwelling is attached to the lighthouse itself, and his pay is seven

hundred dollars, with two assistants. A better place to study the phases

of the ocean, the beauties of the sky, the powers of the wind, or the

fantastic performances of the fog, cannot be found on the Atlantic

coast; and any lover of nature who may be privileged to spend a week or

a month on this spot will have freighted his mind with emotions and

thoughts that will be cherished to the end of his days.

But now for a topographical description of Montauk Point. Its surface is

undulating to a remarkable degree, and it is well named, for the meaning

of Montauk is hilly country; and while all the hills are covered with a

green sward, in many of the little valleys or hollows is to be found a

rank growth of stunted forest. The tops of the trees are invariably on a

level with the surrounding hills, for the winter storms long since

issued a mandate that there should be no towering aristocracy among the

woods of Montauk. To my mind the general scenery bears a striking

resemblance to the rolling prairies of the Far West, and a friend who

has visited England informs me that nothing could be more like the Downs

of Devonshire than the hills of Montauk; only that the former are more

lofty, and have more imposing coast scenery. One thing is certain, lofty

as many of them are, and woodless as are the whole, and looking out as

they do upon the ocean, they are very grand, and inevitably make a deep

impression upon the mind of the beholder. But such has not always been

the character of the country. Originally it was completely covered with

luxuriant forests, but in 1815 and 1823 it was visited by two

hurricanes, which levelled all the towering vegetation, and the trees

having rotted away or been used as fuel, the hills have only in later

years put on their beautiful vesture of green. In no part of the region

is to be found anything like a running stream, but tiny ponds, teeming

with white and yellow lilies, are met with in all directions; and on the

western border of the reserve, or common domain, are two more ambitious

sheets of water, which might be called lakes. The larger one is called

Great Pond, is perhaps two miles and a half in length, and most

abundantly supplied with white perch; the other is Fort Pond, something

over half a mile long, and has upon its shores many interesting

memorials of the Indian race, who once inhabited what is now known as

the “Indian Fields.” Two smaller sheets of water, contiguous to the

above, are Oyster Pond and Reed Pond. Westward of the above-mentioned

ponds there is a strip of country which really belongs to Montauk, for

its western boundary consists of the Nommonock Hills, and here are to be

found two or three farm-houses, but they only increase the loveliness of

the scenery. The rock formation of Montauk is almost exclusively

confined to boulders; and while the southern or ocean coast is lofty and

imposing, it is composed of gravelly points, with grass growing to their

crumbling edges, and everywhere looking down upon a fine beach or

shingle, and upon as superb a surf as the world affords. The northern,

or Sound shore, though less imposing, is perhaps more varied, and is to

some extent supplied with harbours for small vessels.

With regard to the early history of Montauk, it is chiefly associated

with the Indians, and although involved in much obscurity, what has come

down to us in an authentic form proves that they were a remarkable and

interesting people. It was said of them by one of their descendants, on

being questioned as to their numbers—“If you can count the spears of

grass, you can count the Indians who were living when I was a boy.” The

earliest of their chiefs, of whom anything is positively known, was

_Wyandanch_, or Wyandannee; he assumed the royal authority in 1651; had

thirteen tribes under his sway; and was sachem of the whole of

“Paumanacke,” or Long Island. In person the men of the tribe were tall

and of lofty bearing, and they were expert in the arts of war. In

religion they were idolaters, and had gods for the four corners of the

earth, the four seasons of the year, the elements of fire, air, and

water, and for the products of the earth, one each for the day and

night, the sun and moon and stars, and one for the hearthstone of home.

Their canoes were of the largest class, some of them capable of holding

eighty persons, and in them did they extend their coasting voyages as

far as the towns of Boston and New York. The canoe of the great chief

was so large that it required eight men to draw it upon the shore. In

the arts their advancement was limited, and their principal articles of

manufacture were shell beads or wampum, which they supplied to the

nations on the main shore. The earliest efforts to introduce

civilisation and Christianity among them were made in 1660, and the

worthy man who pioneered the way in this enterprise was the Rev. Thomas

James, but of his success little is known. In 1740 the Rev. Azariah

Horton succeeded him in that missionary field, and in 1798 the Rev. Paul

Cuffee, a Shinecock Indian, entered upon a missionary life among the

Montauk Indians, in which capacity he served until his death in 1812.

When Sag Harbour was successfully engaged in the whaling business, many

of the Montauk Indians shipped as sailors, and seldom returned to reside

in their native village, and at the present time the nation has been

reduced to a remnant of five miserable families. As in the olden times,

they live upon fish and berries, and on such vegetables as their small

gardens will afford; and yet they claim that one of their number, who

died about one year ago, was their legitimate chief, or king, as they

loved to call him. His son, a young man, is the present occupant of the

throne; his disputed dominion comprises the entire area of the “Indian

Fields.”

The precise time when this aboriginal nation began rapidly to decline is

not known, but the great event which caused their downfall has been

graphically narrated by their best historian, the late John Gardener.

The Montauk Indians, as he tells us, were the allies of the Pequots.

When the country was first settled, a war prevailed between the Pequots

on the one side and the Narragansetts, who were very numerous, on the

other. The Block Island Indians took part with the latter, the Montauks

with the former; and in this war the Montauks received a heavy blow from

the Block Island Indians. On one memorable evening the fighting men of

both tribes set out on an expedition in their war canoes. It was the

summer season and at the full of the moon. They met about half way

between their several camping grounds, but owing to the glare of the

moon the Block Island Indians were not seen by their enemies, and

profiting by this accident, they hurriedly returned to their island,

secreted their wives and children, and arranged themselves in ambush.

The Montauks, not dreaming of the danger, arrived at their

landing-place, hauled up their canoes, and silently approached the

wigwams of their enemies, supposed to be asleep. They fell into the

ambush, and while one party was killing them, another proceeded to

destroy the canoes, slaying a number of men who attempted to get away.

They were all killed or captured, excepting a few who escaped in one

canoe and carried the melancholy news to their friends. The leader of

this Montauk band was taken alive and carried to Narragansett. There a

large rock was heated to excess, by building fires upon it, and the

unfortunate captive was ordered to walk to and fro upon it with his bare

feet. He sang his death song, and with erect form and unflinching eye

obeyed the cruel orders; and after his feet had been burned to a crisp,

he fell, and the barbarians finished as usual in such cases. And this

event ended the long continued war between the two nations.

As to the number of wrecks that have occurred on Montauk Point within

the last thirty years, they have been numerous and disastrous both to

life and property. Among the more noted vessels lost were the schooner

“Triumph,” the whale-ship “Forrester,” the brig “Marcellus,” the bark

“Algea,” the light boat “Nantucket,” the brig “Flying Cloud,” the ship

“John Milton,” and the steamship “Amsterdam,” laden with fruit from

Malaga. The incidents which have been narrated to me touching these

various calamities, do not incline me to fall in love with the ocean on

the score of humanity, and I was surprised to learn that much the larger

proportion of the poor mariners wrecked on the coast of Montauk had been

saved. The most fearful calamity was that which befell the ship “John

Milton,” and her wreck was almost the first object that I saw and

sketched on my first visit to the region, and it was long before I could

banish the story of her fate from my mind. Her burden was nearly fifteen

hundred tons. She was from the South Pacific, bound to New York, laden

with guano, and went ashore in a snow-storm, on the night of the 19th of

January 1858. Her crew consisted of twenty-six persons, and on the day

following the catastrophe their dead bodies were all found scattered

along the beach, and were subsequently buried in the village of East

Hampton. Not content with having sent this noble ship upon the shore,

the ocean for some weeks was unceasingly hammering away with its huge

and savage breakers upon the timbers of the poor hulk, until every

vestige had disappeared for ever. And thus has it been in every clime;

“man marks the earth with ruin; his control stops with the shore.”

In connection with the frequent shipwrecks, it is due to the General

Government that its wisdom and beneficence should be mentioned. At

various localities on the Montauk coast there have been established a

number of Relief Houses, where at all times may be found a supply of

fuel and food and clothing, as well as signal guns, appropriate cordage

and life-boats, which, during the rigour of winter, have been found of

the greatest benefit to the unfortunate mariners. Nor has this region of

solitude been without its deeds of personal heroism. I have seen a

beautiful gold medal, upon which are inscribed these words: “_Vita

Feliciter Ausis Servata_. Presented, January 1857, to Patrick T. Gould,

for his courage and humanity in saving from inevitable death the crew of

the brig Flying Cloud, wrecked on Montauk Point, L. I., December 14,

1856.” Reverse: “Life Saving Benevolent Association of New York.

Incorporated March 29, 1849.” Of this worthy man I would further remark

that he was born in East Hampton, spent his early life as a carpenter in

New York city, was keeper of the Montauk Light for seventeen and a half

years, and keeper also for nine years of the Herdsman’s House at Indian

Fields, where I formed his acquaintance and that of his interesting

family; and at the present time leading, in the seventy-first year of

his age, the peaceful life of a farmer on the outskirts of East Hampton,

and occupying the identical house where he spent his childhood.

On the score of fishing and shooting, Montauk Point is decidedly a

region of the first water. Of striped bass and blue-fish, in their

season, there literally seems to be no end. On a reef near the

lighthouse, there have been taken with the net, in the autumn, as many

as a thousand bass in a single night; but all along the ocean shore, the

bass and blue-fish are taken by trolling with an ivory or leaden squid;

and, what I have never known elsewhere, both these fish are taken here

continually, by “heaving and hauling,” while standing on the beach. On

these occasions the squid is covered with an eel-skin, and you throw the

bait directly in the surf. The sport is rather laborious, but nothing

could be better to expand the chest, and there is certainly something

quite novel in the idea of dragging your prize by main strength,

directly on the smooth white shore. In this manner, on one occasion, I

saw two fishermen capture a cart-load of fish in less than one hour,

ranging in weight from six to twenty pounds. Another mode of fishing

with the hand-line is to float along the shore in a surf-boat, throwing

the bait into the surf as before, while the boatman keeps the little

craft in a proper and safe position. The only trouble is, that if you

happen to be caught by one of the big waves at the moment of breaking,

you may be instantly swamped and drowned. In your excitement, however,

you are apt to forget all this; and especially is this the case when,

through the pure water, you see the huge fish darting to and fro between

the great boulders, which seem to cover the bottom of the ocean

immediately around Montauk Point. Black-fish, sea bass and paugies,

flounders and cod-fish, may also be taken in this vicinity; but they are

not much sought after, when the bass and blue-fish are about. Indeed, so

abundant are all these varieties, that, during the summer, you may see,

at all times of day, a fleet of fishing smacks floating in bird-like

beauty upon the neighbouring waters. As already stated, the white perch

are found in the Montauk lakes; and it is worthy of note that the Rev.

Dr. William Berrian, of New York, by way of enjoying the ocean and fine

scenery of the Point, was in the habit of annually catching perch there

for about thirty years, excepting when travelling in Europe, and always

tarried with the Goulds. It is only now and then, in the later years,

that whales are to be seen in these parts, but in the olden times they

were abundant. Two hundred years ago, according to the old records, the

art of killing whales seems to have been unknown; and there were parties

of men from the interior, who in “squadrons” visited Montauk, for the

purpose of taking possession of the carcasses that were stranded on the

shores. At a later period it was customary to fit out expeditions of

several whale boats, and cruise along the coast in the whaling season,

camping out at night on the Montauk headlands, and leading as wild and

romantic a life as could well be imagined. These expeditions usually

lasted from one to two weeks, and the adventurers were composed of white

men from the interior villages of Long Island, and the Indians of

Montauk.

But the shooting on Montauk is quite as good as its fishing. Foxes were

formerly very abundant, but are becoming less so; and as there is

nothing to prevent you from seeing them running over the hills, when a

mile distant, the chase with hounds might be indulged in to the greatest

perfection.

Beavers were also abundant in former times, but are now extinct, and

their place has been supplied by musk-rats, which are found in every

pond. In the autumn, however, the whole Point swarms with wild fowl,

such as geese, swan, brant, a dozen varieties of ducks, hill plover and

curlew. A single gun, carried by a good sportsman, has often brought to

wagon, instead of bag, a dozen or twenty geese before breakfast of a

November morning. Indeed, so abundant has been the game here, and so

extensive the reputation of Mrs. Gould’s table, during her husband’s

occupancy of the Herdsman’s Retreat, that she has on many occasions been

willingly obliged to harbour for the night half a hundred wild and happy

sportsmen from the neighbouring as well as distant cities.

And here, leaving the aforesaid sportsmen engaged in recounting their

unnumbered adventures around the blazing fire in the Retreat, I will

repeat a bird-story which is almost pathetic. On one occasion, in 1857,

Mr. Gould stumbled upon the skeleton of a dead eagle, about one mile

from his house, and found attached to one of its legs _an iron trap_.

Six months before, a Sag Harbour newspaper had stated that a large eagle

had flown over the town with something hanging to its body, and as the

trap was after a pattern not found in the Eastern States, it was

presumed that the noble bird had put his foot into the cruel iron

somewhere on our Western frontier, and had flown just far enough to die

within sound of the ocean’s roar. Had the poet Campbell known of such an

incident as this, he might have added a new sentiment to his splendid

poem of “The Dead Eagle.”

With regard to the bathing facilities of Montauk I have not found them

what I expected, but not on account of a scarcity of water, certainly.

There are no bathing-houses, and, excepting when there is a dead calm,

the surf is too rough on the southern shore and the sandy slopes too

steep, while the northern shore is not only too far off from the

Lighthouse or the Herdsman’s Retreat, but is generally tame. According

to the experience of the ladies who have always accompanied me to this

region, the best and only safe beach is directly in front of the

Retreat. When we were first there, and guests of the Gould family, the

hull of a wrecked brig called the “Flying Cloud,” afforded us more

facilities than the best of bathing-houses. And this reminds me of one

of our morning expeditions. The Gould House and the wreck were in sight

of each other, although the intervening space of three quarters of a

mile was filled up with gently rolling hills. I had preceded the ladies

to the beach for the purpose of fishing for an hour, and they were to

meet me at the wreck. When they left the house at ten o’clock there was

a slight fog, but before they had walked fifty rods, it swept over the

landscape in almost a solid mass, and as there was no path, they soon

found themselves bewildered and lost. After waiting more than an hour,

and wondering at their delay, I started in search, and very soon found

myself in the same predicament. I saw three objects on a hill, and

feeling confident that the lost were found, I hurried on, when three

large mullen stalks waved their congratulations to me, under the

influence of the breeze. At about the same time, as was afterwards made

known, the ladies saw what they supposed to be their relative, with his

uncouth hat, standing in anxious attitude on the summit of a hill, and

shouting his name unanimously, and rushing to him for protection, they

found, not him, but a withered Scotch thistle. As may be supposed,

matters now became very much “mixed up,” and yet there was really

nothing to be seen but fog—dense, wet, and salty fog. Without any

previous arrangement, they were all in the full excitement—I cannot say

enjoyment—of a fog bath, and, instead of buffeting the breakers of the

sea, they were in constant danger of breaking their necks, one and all,

in their ground and lofty tumbling on the hills. But a meeting-time

finally arrived, and whether it was followed by a larger demonstration

of laughter than of tears on the part of the way-worn and disgusted

ladies, I have not been able to decide. In their opinion the “Children

in the Wood” must have had a good time compared with that of the women

in the fog. Soon after noon, however, the mists all cleared away, and

lo! a surprise! There was the Gould House in full view of the party, and

not a hundred yards distant. For consolation the entire party then went

aside to the margin of a small pond, and gathering as many exquisite

lilies as we could carry, turned our faces homeward, where we were

welcomed by our bright and kind-hearted hostess, as well as by a general

assortment of jokes touching our morning adventures.

This allusion to one of our Montauk mishaps brings vividly to my mind

just now some other interesting recollections. It was a glorious day,

for example, and I had gone forth alone, determined to give all its

golden hours to what men call idleness. I started from the Gould Retreat

after an early breakfast, and the roar of the surf attracted me first to

the southern beach, where, in a ramble of half a mile, I saw in my very

pathway wonders enough to fill me with amazement. In a little pool,

hemmed in by a huge boulder, I captured two crabs, one of which was an

awkward creature, resembling a spider, whose entire body was covered

with zoophytes, while the other had flattened legs, which he used as

oars, and whose active motions were allied to those of a man playing on

a fiddle. I picked up also a number of star fish, and watched them

pretending to be dead; saw them travel in a perfectly straight line in

spite of every obstacle; tried, but in vain, to count their feet or

suckers, and as I examined their tiny mouths, felt disposed to doubt the

naturalists, who tell us that these nondescripts have it in their power

to eat oysters. I seated myself upon the spar of a wrecked vessel, which

was covered with barnacles, and while digging in the sand, turned up a

splendid specimen of the jelly-fish, known as the Portuguese man-of-war,

which, my fancy told me, might have voyaged a thousand miles in the Gulf

Stream only to be washed ashore, where rested the remains of the goodly

vessel made by man, both of them meeting with a similar and unexpected

fate. The eggs of the skate and shark, which look so much like articles

of human manufacture as to have received the name of mermaid’s purses,

were to be seen in every direction, but they were all empty, while their

sometime denizens, perhaps, were at that time roaming along the coast

from Hatteras to Cape Cod. Pausing at a pile of sea-weed, I plucked some

specimens that were so small and delicate as to be hardly visible to the

naked eye, and at the same time drew forth other specimens which were a

foot wide and twenty feet long. Bright pebbles and curious shells,

flocks of sand-pipers and gulls, and sand-skippers by the myriad, all in

their turn attracted my attention and excited my wonder. And now I

paused, for the hundredth time, to gaze upon the wild careering waves,

as they came from tropic climes, all clothed in living green, only to

die in foam upon the shore. But the music of the ocean seemed to delight

me more, if that were possible, than its magnificent evolutions. To my

ear there was the deep moan of the ground swell, then the roaring and

the laughing of curling breakers, afterwards the cannon-like reports of

the water dashing on the rocks and pebbles; and, finally, the surging

and the hissing of the waves as they melted in the sand. Ascending to

the summit of a cliff, and casting another look upon the sea, I could

not discover a single sail, and as I recollected that a line drawn from

the spot where I stood to the Cape of Good Hope would not cross a foot

of land, I turned away, more deeply impressed than ever before with the

immensity of the ocean and the omnipotence of that Great Being who holds

it in the hollow of His hand.

         *    *    *    *    *

My second lounging place was on the margin of one of the forest islands

peculiar to Montauk. The whole mass of vegetation seemed to spring from

a bed of water, and from its density and impenetrable character, it was

impossible fully to comprehend its botanical features. The predominating

trees, however, were scrubby oaks and stunted pines, oddly shaped and

fantastic, and covered with moss, which seemed to have braved a thousand

years the storms of the sea and land. On the edges of the swampy wood,

the sweet briar vied with the yellow lily in perfuming the air;

blackberry bushes held aloft great clusters of fruit, as if to mock the

barren and nameless vines that were running and twisting themselves in

every direction; and luxuriant ferns formed everywhere hiding-places for

the wood duck and her brood. On approaching one particular alder bush,

two blackbirds suddenly appeared, flew rapidly in a circle just above my

head, and their cries of alarm convinced me that a nest of young birds

was near, and when I discovered them, the parents would not be quiet

until I was entirely out of the way. They thought it very uncivil of me

even to look at them, and yet the rascals would, in a short time, be

busily engaged, with thousands of their kindred, in robbing the

neighbouring corn-fields. Having thus been driven from the wood, where I

expected to be amused for at least an hour, I concluded it was only a

fit place for corn robbers to hatch their young in, and so passed on,

when I was suddenly startled by a grey fox, that came down the hill-side

like the wind, and bolted directly into the wood. There is another

robber, thought I, and this swamp is his home, and so I departed

forthwith in pursuit of more agreeable companions.

         *    *    *    *    *

My next saunter was along the eastern border of the Great Pond. Mr.

Gould’s sail boat, the only thing which identified that sheet of water

with civilisation, was floating idly at her moorings, and I determined

to have a sail, and perhaps a little sport in the way of fishing.

Turning over a few stones, I obtained some bait, and knowing that the

boat was supplied with tackle, I waded out, pulled up anchor, hoisted

sail, and bore away before a pleasant breeze. In every direction, even

where the lake was fifteen feet deep, I found grass, or a kind of weed

resembling it, growing abundantly; but finally coming to an open spot, I

put the boat about, and in half an hour caught white perch enough to

supply a regiment. By this time the breeze had died away, and as I

fancied it would take me a month to sail back to “the haven where I

would be,” I seized an oar, and worked my passage to the nearest shore,

which proved to be the northern extremity of the Pond. Here I found a

stray Indian! and having hired him to take the boat back to its harbour,

presented him with my fish, and continued my independent journey. I

visited the Indian hamlet, was pleased with the rude but picturesque

cabins and gentle manners of the Indian women, but could derive no

pleasure from realising the sad events of their national history, and so

I turned my face to the Herdsman’s Retreat. I then had a walk before me

of nearly three miles over the highest of the Montauk hills, and upon

which nearly all the live stock of the farmers happened at that time to

be congregated. A more delightful walk than that I have seldom enjoyed.

The height of this hill I do not know, but by the aborigines it was

called “Shagwannock,” or Big Hill, and upon its summit they built their

watch fires in time of war. But the panoramic pictures which appeared to

my eyes, as well as those of which it formed a part, were all as

peaceful as the soft summer air which slumbered upon land and ocean. In

the north and north-west were the waters of the Sound, dotted with snowy

sails, the green island owned by the Gardiner family, and beyond it the

blue Connecticut shore; on the east and south, nothing but the great

Atlantic, with the horizon line only broken by the towering lighthouse;

and in the west were the gentle hills of Long Island fading to the sky.

At one time, I saw a splendid bull standing on a hill, with a flock of

sheep grazing by his side; a glance into one of the deep glens revealed

a herd of perhaps five hundred head of cattle, of all colours and many

kinds, and in groups and attitudes that would have delighted the Cattle

Queen of France; anon I came in sight of a small group of sleepy oxen,

standing so near the extreme summit of a hill, that they were pictured

wholly against the sky; and finally, I was permitted to enjoy the poetry

of motion, as a cavalcade of horses, which had been frightened by an

Indian dog, came swooping over the hills, tearing up the sod in their

way, and snorting with the rare excitement. With these and similar

pictures, I amused myself until the middle of the afternoon, and while

counting on a glorious sunset scene, a thunderstorm rose in the west,

and in half an hour after I had reached the Retreat, it burst in all its

indescribable beauty and gloom: its horrors having been enhanced by the

wild bellowing of the cattle, which had now congregated in one vast

herd, and were goring each other and madly running to and fro. The

lightning struck in many places, and among its victims was one of the

finest bulls on Montauk.

         *    *    *    *    *

And here, in passing, I must not forget to make an additional remark

about Gardiner’s Island, alluded to in the last paragraph. I had seen it

a hundred times before resting like a cloud on the tranquil bosom of the

Sound, and have often trolled for blue-fish in the adjacent waters, but

because it was a private domain, and although the original proprietor

was of my kindred, I never landed upon its shores. Its dimensions are

about equal to those of Montauk, which it somewhat resembles in its

general characteristics. It was purchased of the Manchonock Indians in

1639, by Lyon Gardiner, and by him was called the Isle of Wight, in

honour of his native island, but as it has always been occupied by his

descendants, it has come to bear his name. The present proprietor is the

tenth in descent from the original purchaser, and the estate was styled

a manor or lordship, although none of the family ever claimed the

kindred title. It was one of the few places where the pirate Kidd

actually buried some of his treasures, consisting of gold and silver and

precious stones, and which, when discovered, were turned over to the

colony of Massachusetts. The woodland upon this island has been

protected with care, and is of a larger growth than any other in this

latitude, and about one-third of the land is in a high state of

cultivation. The main dwelling and various outhouses were built about

one hundred years ago; the inhabitants number nearly a hundred, and are

all under the rule of the proprietor. The farming operations are on a

large scale, the leading products being corn, oats, and wheat, neat

cattle, sheep, and horses, as well as butter and cheese from a very

large and very well managed dairy. Taken as a whole, on account of its

beauty, its extent, its history and relics of the past, it is one of the

most interesting places on the Atlantic seaboard, and those who may

desire to visit it may count upon always being received according to the

most approved rules of hospitality. With regard to one of the members of

the Gardiner family, the late John Lyon, it may be said that he was a

devoted antiquarian, thoroughly versed in the history of Eastern Long

Island, and probably did more than any other man to perpetuate the

history of the Montauk Indians.

As the Montauk Lighthouse, by virtue of its position and duties,

exercises a kind of guardian care over all who may come within the range

of its influence, and as I have already touched upon its history, I

would fain pay to it a “passing paragraph of praise.” On no other spot

of earth, it seems to me, could a lover of nature ever be brought in

closer contact with the ocean and the sky.

To be there in a heavy fog, when the alarm bell is sounding forth its

dismal warnings; or when the trampling surf and the booming thunder, all

in the glare of sheeted lightning, are striving to excel each other in

their tumultuous roarings, would be to have experiences never to be

forgotten. But if a thing of beauty is indeed a joy for ever, it only

requires a brief sojourn at the Point, for a man to store away in his

memory an ever-varying collection of pictures, marvellous for their

loveliness. First come the glories of sunrise, as “the king of the

bright days” emerges from the deep, accompanied by his retinue of

crimson and golden clouds; then the effulgence of noon, when the ocean

is sleeping; the afternoon, when the sky and the sea are blended

together in one vast domain of pearly loveliness, vague and wonderful;

the sunset hour, when we might fancy the gates of paradise are opening

in the west; the long twilight, with its brood of treasured memories,

roused into activity by the plaintive monotone of the waves; the rising

moon, scattering its treasures of silver across the ocean, in the wake

of the distant ships, and on the tops of the remote hills; midnight,

with its silence and its starry worlds; and then the dawn, when the

land-birds begin to sing, and the sea-birds leap from their

resting-places to wander everywhere in search of food, on tireless

pinions free. And then the views from the lantern of the lighthouse are

interesting in the extreme, whether you look down, as it was my fortune,

upon a fleet of more than a hundred mackerel fishermen, with a whale

rolling along in the offing, and sporting defiance to the toilers of the

sea; whether you watch a brilliant sunset above a sea of fog; or look

upon the Montauk hills when covered with a thin fog, and the immense

herds of cattle as they fade away resemble the spectres of a dream.

These, and unnumbered others of their character, are the treasures which

the true-hearted lover of Nature may enjoy in the greatest perfection on

old Montauk.

         *    *    *    *    *

I have been informed, by one who has known this region for more than

fifty years, that even within his recollection marked changes have taken

place in the outline of its shores; and while the encroachments are

generally made by the sea, there are one or two spots near the Point

where new land has been formed and is still forming. Indeed, very

important changes have taken place within my own recollection. It seems

to me that the lighthouse itself is not on a secure foundation, and it

may have to be rebuilt in twenty or thirty years. But this subject of

the changes which time is continually making upon the earth’s surface

recalls to my mind a very beautiful passage from the pen of Mohammed

Kazwyny, a naturalist, who lived in the thirteenth century; the original

manuscript is preserved in the Royal Library at Paris, the English

translator from the French translation was Charles Lyell, and the

extract is given as the narrative of an imaginary personage as

follows:—

“I passed one day by a very ancient and wonderfully populous city, and

asked one of its inhabitants how long it had been founded. ‘It is,

indeed, a mighty city,’ replied he, ‘we know not how long it has

existed, and our ancestors were on this subject as ignorant as

ourselves.’ Five centuries afterwards, as I passed by the same place, I

could not perceive the slightest vestige of the city. I demanded of a

peasant, who was gathering herbs upon its former site, how long it had

been destroyed. ‘In sooth, a strange question!’ replied he. ‘The ground

here has never been different from what you now behold it.’ ‘Was there

not of old,’ said I, ‘a splendid city here?’ ‘Never,’ answered he, ‘so

far as we have seen, and never did our fathers speak to us of any such.’

On my return there five hundred years afterwards, _I found the sea in

the same place_, and on its shores were a party of fishermen, of whom I

inquired how long the land had been covered by the waters. ‘Is this a

question,’ said they, ‘for a man like you? This spot has always been

what it is now.’ I returned again five hundred years afterwards, and the

sea had disappeared. I inquired of a man who stood alone upon the spot,

how long ago this change had taken place, and he gave me the same answer

I had received before. Lastly, on coming back after an equal lapse of

time, I found there a flourishing city, more populous and more rich in

beautiful buildings than the city I had seen the first time, and when I

would fain have informed myself concerning its origin the inhabitants

answered me: ‘Its rise is lost in remote antiquity; we are ignorant how

long it has existed, and our fathers were, on this subject, as ignorant

as ourselves.’”

         *    *    *    *    *

As Montauk is one of the pleasantest places in the world to visit, so is

it a most agreeable place from which to depart, especially if you have

visited it by sea, and return by the way of East Hampton. It is a drive

of twenty-one miles, almost continually in view of the ocean, but at the

same time remarkable for its variety of scenery. The first

stopping-place as you come westward is the house of George Osborne,

which is flanked by a bay running up from the Sound, and directly in

front of which is a splendid beach, where may always be seen the

skeleton of a stranded ship or the bones of a whale. Mr. Osborne’s

business is to look after the sheep for the Montauk Company, and, on

account of his superior qualities as a host, he is a great favourite

with the sporting fraternity. But the most striking feature which you

cross is Neapeague Beach or water land, which connects Montauk with the

main part of Long Island, and where the grassy feature is only relieved

by artificial landmarks, and where nothing is heard but the hum of

mosquitoes, the scream of the bittern and plover, and the roar of the

ocean. Before reaching and after leaving Neapeague, you pass through

picturesque woods and an occasional house, where comfort and repose are

quite at home, catch charming glimpses both of the ocean and the Sound,

and are tempted to exclaim: “This is glorious, and I would like to go

back and try it all over again.”

         *    *    *    *    *

Then comes the lovely little hamlet called Amagansett, which is the

easternmost cluster of houses to be found on Long Island, and finally

you enter for a good long rest, as you will try to make it, the

exquisite rural village of East Hampton. Here you will find in their

greatest perfection grassy streets, brown houses, flanked by cheerful

gardens and orchards, two pretty little churches, a comfortable inn or

summer hotel, all the advantages of the best sea-bathing, and such

polite, kind-hearted, and unpretending people, that you will fain for

the time being almost forget Montauk, and look about you for a permanent

location. This gem of an old-fashioned village was founded in 1648, and

is the only place in the United States, that I remember, excepting St.

Augustine, in Florida, which has not been visited by the blasting

influences of Mammon. It was purchased of the Indians by two Colonial

Governors, named Eaton and Hopkins, and assigned to the original

settlers for the sum of £30, 4s. 8d. sterling. The first name given to

the plantation was that of Maidstone, after the English town from which

the inhabitants had emigrated. It has been stated as a singular fact,

that in the one hundred and ninety-fifth year of its existence, the

village contained precisely the same number of houses that it did when

the settlement was first completed.

The laws which governed the community were those of Connecticut, and

were noted for their Puritan strictness; and one of the first steps

taken by the people, after they had furnished their thatched cottages,

was to erect a church in 1651. That church was enlarged in 1673, and

again in 1698, remodelled in 1717 and in 1822, and in June of the year

1871 razed to the ground. Queen Anne of England honoured herself by

furnishing it with a bell, which, however, was cracked many years ago;

and the fragments, as well as the original vane of the church, have

passed into the possession of the Long Island Historical Society. For

about one hundred and fifty years after it was founded, its pulpit was

supplied by a number of very able and sincerely zealous preachers, whose

memories are fondly cherished by the present inhabitants, viz., Thomas

James, who did much good as a missionary among the Indians; Nathaniel

Huntting, a kinsman of the famous martyr John Rogers; Samuel Buell, who

studied with Jonathan Edwards, and founded the village academy; and

Lyman Beecher, who was settled in 1799, and for eleven years filled the

old church with his fiery eloquence. But the fact that John Howard

Payne, the author of “Home, Sweet Home,” spent a portion of his boyhood

here (where his father was a teacher in the village academy), is alone

sufficient to endear the place to every home-loving American. If Eastern

Long Island may boast that she once harboured the progenitor of the

distinguished Beecher family, so may Central Long Island claim the

honour of having fostered Ebenezer Prime, another celebrated clergyman,

who was also the ancestor of a brotherhood of highly gifted men in the

departments of theology, medicine, and literature.

       SALMON-FISHING ON THE RIVER JACQUES CARTIER.

Some of my friends, the wise of their generation, have occasionally

expressed surprise at my fondness for angling. While the phantoms of

their summer pursuit have been associated with conventional life in

pent-up cities, it has been my choice, supplied with sketching-materials

and fishing-tackle, to breathe the pure air of the wilderness. I have no

desire to combat the prejudices alluded to; but, by way of showing how

much may be seen and enjoyed during a single fishing excursion, I

propose to write a chapter about the Jacques Cartier river, in Lower

Canada. In 1859 I made a flying visit to this stream, which resulted,

first, in my tumbling into its pure waters, and secondly, in my falling

in love with one of the most beautiful rivers on the continent. On

several occasions since then have I visited it; and if I can now impart

to my reader a tithe of my pleasurable experiences, I shall be quite

contented. On the score of novelty, moreover, I desire no better fortune

to attend this chapter than has already attended my descriptions of the

Saguenay river and Lake Memphremagog, since it was not long ago that two

distinguished American authors, after travelling far over the world,

first visited them, and expressed surprise at their grandeur and beauty.

I beg the favourite authors alluded to not to rest satisfied until they

have followed me a little further in my American wanderings, and have

finally spent a summer on the Jacques Cartier.

This river derives its name from the famous discoverer of Canada, who

wintered at its mouth in 1536. It rises in a mountain wilderness,

bounded on the north by Lake St. John and the Saguenay river, and, after

a winding course of perhaps one hundred miles, empties into the St.

Lawrence twenty-five miles above or westward of Quebec.

Its waters are dark, but very pure, and its entire bed and banks are

extremely rocky, slate, granite, and limestone lending their strata to

diversify the scenery.

In the variety of its scenery, indeed, as well as in beauty, it is

probably not excelled by any other river, and from its fountain-head to

the St. Lawrence it is made up of a continued succession of small lakes

and rapids, deep pools and falls, with high and fantastic banks,

everywhere covered with luxuriant vegetation in a state of nature. The

country out of which it runs is a vast forest, only intersected by the

hunting-trails of the Lorette Indians, who go there in the winter to

kill the boar and the caribou. Just before emerging from this wild

region, it runs along the eastern base of a mountain called Tsonnontonan

or Great Mountain, which, although only two thousand feet high, commands

a view of about one hundred miles of the St. Lawrence valley, as well as

the blue tops of the Vermont and New Hampshire mountains. The country

lying south of the Great Mountain is comparatively level and tolerably

well cultivated, the population being wholly composed of habitans, but

the immediate banks and valley of the Jacques Cartier are everywhere in

their primeval condition. Indeed, on account of its ravine-like

character, it was marked out more than one hundred years ago by military

men as a natural barrier that could be made available for the protection

of Quebec from a foe marching upon it from the west; and it is well

known that in 1759 the French, after they were expelled from the citadel

city, found a safe retreat on the western side of the Jacques Cartier.

Good fording-places are almost unknown, and the localities where bridges

are practicable are few and far between, the only bridges now spanning

the stream being one ten miles from its mouth, another about a mile

below, called Dery’s Bridge, and one in sight of the St. Lawrence. My

stopping-place has always been in the immediate vicinity of Dery’s

Bridge, and I must now tell the reader how this delightful locality may

be reached. (And here I would notify my readers, that while writing in

the present tense, the time of which I speak was before the building of

the railroad from Montreal to Quebec.) From Montreal you have to take

the regular evening steamboat for Quebec, which will, provided you have

despatched a proper telegram beforehand, transfer you into a small boat

off Cape Sante, about three o’clock in the morning, and in that pleasant

village you can obtain a calash that will take you to Dery’s Bridge in

less than two hours. From Quebec, and that I think the better

starting-place, there are two routes, and either of them will repay the

tourist or angler; but the best course to pursue is to go by the river

route and return by the other, which is inland. Every mile of the

first-named road commands some object of interest, and while the first

seven miles are as smooth as a floor, and lined on either side by

elegant country residences and mansions, the balance of the way presents

a continuous view of the superb St. Lawrence, the neat cottages and

thatched barns of the habitant yeomanry seeming to vie with each other

in making delightful impressions upon the mind by their rural and

picturesque charms; green fields sloping down to the margin of the great

stream, giving place to pretty villages on the hill-tops, and they, in

their turn, when the tide is low, looking away upon broad reaches of a

barren strand. The inland route is equally interesting, only that

mountain views and glimpses of a forest land take the place of the grand

St. Lawrence. At Quebec the most comfortable of vehicles may be

obtained, with accommodating drivers; and those who propose to make an

extended visit to the Jacques Cartier ought not to omit a quiet talk,

respecting supplies, with the butler of Russell’s Hotel, than whom no

man better understands the art of satisfying the desires of the human

appetite.

And now for the accommodations that are to be met with on the Jacques

Cartier river. There are two cottages at the middle bridge belonging to

Louis Dery and Bazile Trepanier. The former is a regular inn, and

adjoins the western extremity of the bridge, and with its romantic views

above, around, and below, with its comfortable rooms, pretty garden,

curious sign-board, cosy outhouses, and agreeable habitant family, is

just the spot that anglers and artists are wont to visit in their

dreams. The other cottage alluded to stands on an open plateau

overlooking the narrow valley through which the river runs, and about

300 yards from the eastern extremity of the bridge, the proprietor and

his family, like their friends under the hill, being habitans. An

accident took me to this house originally, and since then it has been my

headquarters when in that region. M. Trepanier cultivates several

hundred acres of good land, and has surrounded himself with all the

substantial comforts to be found among the more prosperous farmers of

Canada. He is also an inveterate angler, and knows everything about the

doings and haunts of the salmon, and while he willingly devoted himself

to me personally, his wife seemed wholly bent upon making the two ladies

who always accompanied me as comfortable and happy as possible. One-half

of the main cottage was entirely given up to us, who were the only

guests, and with clean beds, nice cooking, and every possible attention,

it was not difficult to enjoy the good things that were placed upon the

board. From the Post-Office of Point aux Trembles, six miles distant, we

were daily supplied with Washington and New York papers. The mornings

and evenings were devoted to fishing by the deponent, and the noontide

hours, by all of the party, to scenery, hunting, and sketching. Thus

divided as was our attention between matters pictorial and piscatorial,

the weeks flew rapidly away, and our enjoyment of the bracing air, the

fresh scenery, and the sparkling waters, only seemed to become more

acute the longer we remained. But now for the main idea of this

disjointed essay.

As it would be impossible to sketch either with pen or pencil all the

more striking points on the Jacques Cartier river, I will confine myself

to a space of perhaps three miles, near the middle of which is located

Trepanier’s cottage, and I begin with a place called the Rocky Reach.

The river at this point, after fighting its way through a regular herd

of huge boulders, spreads itself to the width of a quarter of a mile,

makes a broad bend, and then flows over a multitude of large flat rocks,

the tops of which, when the water is low, forming tiny islands, as

smooth and clean as a marble floor. If water spirits do ever haunt this

northern stream, those granite islands must be their midnight

meeting-places. Emptying into the river at this place is a small stream

of extremely cold water, and for that reason the bend is a favourite

congregating place for trout, which are very numerous, so that the

pleasure of throwing the fly, while wading from one rock to another, is

only to be equalled by the delight of lounging on the islands to rest

like seals on the sandy bars of Labrador. A locality designated as the

Red Bridge is not worthy of note, on account of that structure which is

commonplace; but here the river makes another of its graceful sweeps,

fretting itself into foam, then a plunge, as if angry at the boldness of

a rocky point bristling with cedars and trying to impede its course, and

soon hushing itself into a repentant mood, passes under the bridge and

glides onward, rejoicing in the sunbeams. Here small trout may be taken

in abundance. Onward still, and we come to a cluster of islands around

which the water tumbles in every conceivable manner, and from which

spring up against the sky a number of stupendous pines; and while the

right-hand shore is covered with a dense forest, that on the left

presents the appearance of a causeway, formed of limestone by the hands

of man; but when the foundation stones were laid the world itself must

have been in its infancy. The next spot that has a character of its own

is known as “The Basin,” lying directly by the side of a pretty fall,

and deriving its name from a huge hollow, filled with pure water to the

depth of ten or fifteen feet, and which the trout have monopolised as a

kind of breeding-place. It is indeed an aquarium of magnificent

proportions. But the view from the margin of this basin, looking down

the river, is remarkable from the fact that the strata of the rock and

the outline of the hills converge just at the point where the stream

disappears from sight, and the idea of a funnel is strikingly realised.

Further down and we come to a long, curving stretch of water, where the

river seems to have fallen into a profound slumber, deep and peaceful;

on one side the rocky bank rising perpendicularly from the water’s edge

to the height of perhaps fifty feet, haunted by echoes and looking

precisely like the inner walls in ruin of a stupendous amphitheatre,

crowned and greatly beautified by a vigorous growth of Alpine

vegetation; on the opposite side, the rocks sloping smoothly to the

water, as if nature had made an unusual but most successful effort to

please the brotherhood of anglers. And such big trout as have been, and

may still be taken there when the weather is favourable, no man will

ever number, and the capture of a brace or two of three-pounders in the

midst of such scenery at the sunset hour, is an event long to be

remembered. But the river is now beginning to murmur in its sleep, and

after a few more fantastic performances with two or three islands, we

shall soon behold it on our friend Trepanier’s land, making the two

grand plunges of its life. What the entire descent may measure cannot be

stated with accuracy, but for a distance of perhaps a quarter of a mile,

the bed of the river presents a mass of foam, at the foot of which the

whole river rushes through a space not more than fifteen feet wide, with

a mossy bluff bulging up on one side, and on the other a kind of broad

domain of flattened limestone. Just below the Trepanier Falls the river

is spanned by the picturesque bridge that bears the name of Dery, and in

a deep black pool directly under the bridge, and almost under a part of

Dery’s garden, hundreds of salmon may sometimes be seen resting

themselves before attempting to surmount the roaring torrent in their

pathway up the stream. From Dery’s bridge to a spot called the Hospital,

a distance of half a mile, the course of the river is through a gorge or

chasm of solid rock, very closely resembling the Montmorency Gorge,

where the rapids are terrific, and the sides have been washed out or

undermined, and made into innumerable caves; one side immediately

overhung with primeval vegetation, a few trees spanning the entire

stream, and the others presenting a kind of frieze-work pavement, broad,

uneven, and peculiar, covered with tiny streamlets of spring water, and

flanked by forest-covered hills. The Hospital is the paragon of salmon

pools, and derives its name from the supposed fact that here the salmon

spend a considerable time recruiting their strength after the toils

experienced in their rough passage from the St. Lawrence, some nine

miles away. Passing down a little further, we come to what appears to be

the mouth of a small but wild mountain stream; a second glance reveals a

picturesque old mill partly hidden in a cleft of the hills, and from

which the water issues; and on entering into conversation with the

worthy miller, he will mention the singular circumstance that the

supposed brook which turns his great wheel is a part of the Jacques

Cartier itself, which has performed an underground journey of a mile,

having left the parent stream some distance above the Trepanier Falls.

Onwards still, for a few hundred yards, and a lovely spot called the

Schute reveals itself to view. It is a sloping rock spanning the entire

river, down which the waters rush without making a great noise over a

long inclined plane, until they find their level some ten or fifteen

feet below, and form a line of foam across the stream. Above this schute

are two of the finest salmon casts imaginable, and below it a number of

charming pools, with a beautiful island, and a glimpse downward of rough

water hemmed in by perpendicular ledges, far as the eye can reach, all

crowned with deep green vegetation. The Everett Cliff, as it is called

after the proprietor, is the last feature that I would specify as coming

within the range of the three miles already mentioned, and it is a

fitting climax to the whole. It consists of a slaty cliff, said to be

two hundred feet high, and perpendicular, more than half a mile in

extent, covered with feathery foliage, out of which come gushing here

and there little streamlets, only to be lost in the deep black pools and

wild rapids below. At the upper extremity of this cliff is a kind of

lake-like sheet of marvellously dark and still water, into which another

cliff from the opposite side of the river pushes its lofty and jagged

profile, as if for the very purpose—which it certainly succeeds in—of

filling the beholder with amazement. Grand in itself, it faces a scene

that is both grand and beautiful; and, indeed, like every other prospect

on this charming river, after having once been witnessed, cannot be

forgotten.

But the piscatorial attractions of the Jacques Cartier now deserve

attention. The principal game fish of this river are salmon and trout,

though the black bass and dory, or pike-perch, are frequently taken in

some of the lower pools. The trout always have been, and still continue

to be, abundant; and specimens weighing three and four pounds are no

great rarity. A few years ago the salmon were even more numerous than

the trout, but the cunning arts of pot-fishermen or poachers had

well-nigh exterminated the race, and would have done so entirely but for

the interposition of the Quebec anglers, who caused stringent laws to be

enacted, and now see to it that the river is properly protected. Judging

from my own experience, an industrious angler might count upon a barrel

of fine salmon in one month; but how, as a pot-fisherman might say, can

the unnumbered pleasures of a month on such a river be compared with a

lot of fish swimming in their brine? In weight the salmon range from

eight to sixteen pounds, and the season for throwing the fly generally

extends from the twentieth of June to the twentieth of August. As to the

extent of their journeys up the Jacques Cartier, accounts strangely

differ; some of the inhabitants allege that they never go higher up than

Trepanier’s Falls; others think that they go to the source of the river,

but never return (which is, of course, a mistake); and Trepanier

informed me that he had once taken six hundred in one night with a net,

some distance above his falls. As to that locality, I have myself seen

them cleaving its foamy waters and passing upwards and onwards in high

glee. The proverb about the early bird is particularly applicable to the

angler who would kill a fair proportion of salmon. On that score my own

zeal was seldom at fault, and one gentleman who chanced to find me at

work on his arrival at the pools on three successive mornings, gave it

as his opinion that I slept upon the rocks all night, and that Trepanier

was sufficiently foolish to do the same thing. The real truth of the

matter was this. I usually left my bed at three o’clock, and never had

to wait for my companion; and the walk of ten minutes down to the chosen

pool was invariably delightful. On arriving at that spot our first

business was to collect some drift wood and make a good large fire, not

only to warm ourselves at the moment, but to dry our clothes after

having had a struggle with a salmon; and while waiting for the sun to

rise and the fog to disappear, Trepanier would smoke his pipe, and

leisurely examine my book of flies, and generally went to some

convenient place to enjoy a bath. We stopped fishing usually about eight

o’clock and went to breakfast; and if, during the morning, we hooked

five or six salmon and lost them all, fighting one or two of them for

more than an hour, we only considered the sport as _good_; if we

actually captured two fish we were well satisfied; but if we could

stagger home under the weight of four salmon, two grilse, and a large

trout, as the writer once did, we were decidedly hilarious, especially

if one of the beauties happened to be a sixteen-pounder. And when it is

remembered that such a labour of love was usually rewarded by a

breakfast made up of such things as broiled trout or salmon, stewed

pigeons, fresh eggs, rare _café au lait_, with richest cream, French

pancakes, and maple syrup, and two or three kinds of berries, the reader

may imagine that the “good time” of philosophers had finally arrived.

The middle hours of those pleasant days were wholly devoted to the

ladies, with whom calash drives, or walks in pursuit of the picturesque,

were enjoyed by both Trepanier and myself; for after his afternoon nap

of thirty minutes, he was always on hand to play the escort with his

rough but kind-hearted attentions. As evening approached, all the

anglers who happened to be congregated at Dery’s home—and there were

sometimes eight or ten—would assemble on the two banks of the river,

all in sight of each other, and if there happened to be a sprinkling of

ladies who had accompanied their husbands, which was oftentimes the

case, the movements of the anglers while throwing the fly were perhaps

more graceful than usual, but their success more doubtful. In all my

adventures, I do not remember a single locality with more pleasure than

this spot known as Dery’s Bridge, nor one which, on the score of scenery

and sport, and the refined and cultivated character of its visitors, so

completely realises my idea of the golden prime of good old Izaak

Walton.

I would have my readers remember, however, that the pleasures of

salmon-fishing in the Jacques Cartier are derived more from the

surrounding associations than from the number of fish captured; and many

persons undoubtedly carry with them from the river more distinct

recollections of the springs gushing from the hills, of a certain

angler’s cabin, with its supply of newspapers, and of the picturesque

groups occasionally assembled there, than of the “oceans of fish” which

fortune may yield. Many salmon, however, are taken, and a few incidents

touching their capture will appropriately conclude this chapter of

riverside talk.

On one occasion, for example, I saw an army officer (who had served with

honour in the Crimea) capture, within one hour, at the right-hand cast,

above the Schute, no less than three fine salmon, landing them without

the assistance of his habitant attendant. The only man who can compete

with Trepanier as an angler is Edward Dery, the son of Louis, and a

bolder or more expert fisherman can nowhere be found. He it is, by the

way, who, in times past, when the salmon would not rise to a fly, was

wont to descend a rope ladder, suspended over a fearful caldron of foam,

and take out with his gaff a few salmon bolder than himself. He is about

the only man also who has the hardihood or courage to throw the flies

directly under Dery’s Bridge; for where he secures one, after hooking

him, he loses a dozen that rush down the gorge to the Hospital pool,

carrying all before them. One fish that I saw him hook there not only

smashed his rod, but carried one-half of it a mile down the river in

less than five brief moments.

That the excitement of salmon-fishing is sometimes contagious the

following incident will prove. I had hooked a large fish at a rapid spot

known as the Black Rock, when Trepanier gave his accustomed shout, which

caused a gentleman on the opposite side of the river to run down and

witness the fun. After my salmon had made his third magnificent leap and

rush, and I was keeping him away from a dangerous rock, my spectator

became quite frantic, and, to my astonishment, plunged into the stream,

and, just as Trepanier had gaffed my fish, up came the stranger to my

side out of the water, panting like a “spent swimmer” as he was. He had

crossed the river—kicking a few fish under the chin, perhaps, as he

passed along—simply for the purpose of having a look at my prize. He

was a lawyer, just arrived from Quebec, and a novice in the art of

salmon-fishing; and I subsequently heard that he has, on more than one

occasion, swam across the great St. Lawrence just for the fun of the

thing. I also heard that the art he seemed to understand so well was

inherited, and that his father had saved from drowning no less than a

dozen Americans during the war of 1812, which kindness an American

gentleman reciprocated by putting him in prison. Though Trepanier’s

exploits have not been as daring as those of young Dery, he kills quite

as many fish during a season, and, upon the whole, is probably better

acquainted with the river. The very last fish I saw him capture gave him

a pretty hard run. He hooked the salmon near the head of the Black Rock

Island, but on the western side, followed him to the foot of the island,

played him half an hour in a pool at that point, when the fish started

up stream again, but now on the eastern side of the island, on reaching

the middle of which he seemed ready to give up the battle, when he broke

away, and Trepanier made a rush, catching the salmon in his arms. The

largest fish it was my fortune to capture on the Jacques Cartier weighed

sixteen pounds. I hooked him while wading, and after tiring my arms

until I could hardly hold the rod, he gave me two duckings and nearly

carried me down a rapid, and then, by way of displaying his genius, ran

completely around Trepanier’s legs, tangling my line dreadfully; but a

successful sweep of the gaff was soon made, and he was landed in

triumph. As to the flies that do the best execution on the river, their

merits I shall not discuss, because I never knew two anglers to agree on

the subject, and my experience has taught me that strength and size are

of more importance than colour or beauty.

My last view of the dear Jacques Cartier was from a railway car, about

nine o’clock at night, while passing like the wind from the St. Maurice

to Quebec, and within a stone’s throw from the Red Bridge.

            STRATFORD-ON-HOUSATONIC.

Stratford-on-Housatonic was founded in 1639, and by a small colony of

emigrants chiefly from Stratford-on-Avon. This fact alone might well

make us respect the place, but there is not a town or village in New

England that could better rest satisfied with its many attractions. It

stands on the western bank of the Housatonic, or _River beyond the

Mountains_, on a level plain, with the Sound three miles away on the

south, the city of Bridgeport a little further off on the west, and with

a rolling, rich, well-cultivated, and picturesque country on the north;

and although crossed by the line of the New York and New Haven railroad,

is one of the most quiet and lovely villages in the land. Its original

name was Cupheag, and an Englishman named Fairchild purchased the land

of the Poquanock Indians, and was the first white man vested with

authority over the town. When the purchase was first made, the whole

township comprised what have since been known as the towns of Trumbull,

Huntington, Monroe, and Bridgeport, the last of which has become a

flourishing city. The price paid for the whole grant is not known, but

it is on record that a neighbouring tract of land cost ten blankets, six

coats, one kettle, and a small assortment of hoes, hatchets, knives, and

glasses. It was on account of similar outlays, undoubtedly, that the

authorities of Stratford, thirty years after its settlement, voted that

the Indians should not be permitted to plant corn anywhere, have their

weapons mended by the smith, nor be employed by any citizens to look

after “the horses, hogs, and other cattle.” Other curious facts which we

gather from the old records were as follows:—In 1707 a house and lot in

the town were _sold_ for a single _negro man_; the salaries of the

clergy were paid in produce and in _wampum_; and in 1678 a mill was sold

for £140, payable in pork, wheat, rye, corn, and £40 in good and

well-conditioned winter cider, made in October.

The town was named in memory of the English Stratford, is said to have

been laid out after the same fashion, and, by those who have seen the

two, the American town has been pronounced the more beautiful. The

principal street is a mile long, runs north and south, and is

intersected by a number of others, all of which are lined by

unpretending houses, each one flanked by a handsome garden. The streets

are wide, richly carpeted by a green sward, and fringed on either side

by regular rows of elm and other trees, which are constantly composing

themselves into beautiful pictures; while the rural beauty of the place

is greatly enhanced by two or three of those open spaces which the old

men of New England love to remember, in connection with their boyhood,

as the village green. Two handsome churches with graceful spires, and

another with less pretension, loom up above the sea of foliage; there is

not a tavern in the place, nor any groggeries or drinking saloons; a

local newspaper was never dreamed of; and the few shops, whose owners do

not deem it necessary to hang out any signs, are stocked with very small

and very miscellaneous assortments of merchandise. Birds build their

nests in every direction, and their sweet singing may be heard through

all the hours of the summer day. Each householder in the town seems to

be the possessor of a cow, and these cattle are driven to pasture in the

morning, watched during the day, and brought home at sundown by a

regular herdsman; and were it not for the occasional whistle of the

passing locomotive, the charming quiet of the place would be profound

and unbroken. It was surveyed, and a handsome map made of the place in

1824 by one of its distinguished citizens, James H. Linsley.[1]

[1] Not only was Mr. Linsley identified with the educational interests

of the town, but he was devoted to the several sciences of ornithology,

geology, and conchology, and left to his family an exceedingly valuable

cabinet of specimens in all those departments. His birds of Connecticut

number five hundred, and his shells not less than two thousand.

Two stories are told illustrative of the repose which reigns in

Stratford.

Some years ago a strange gentleman and his wife arrived in the village

in their carriage, and after driving from one end of it to the other two

or three times without meeting a single person, they became alarmed, and

fancied that a plague might have depopulated the place. On further

reflection, however, the stranger determined to stop at one of the

pleasant houses he saw on every side. He did so, and the sound of the

knocker on the door almost startled him with its terrible noise. In due

time a lady made her appearance, and was saluted with this question—

“Can you tell me, madam, if this town is inhabited?”

“Yes, sir, it is,” replied the lady; “and by way of relieving your

anxiety I will mention one fact. The reason why our streets are so quiet

is this: the men of the place are all in the fields at work, the

children are at school, and the housewives are at home preparing a good

dinner for their families.” The gentleman thus obtained a new idea, and

was satisfied.

The other is as follows:—A Stratford gentleman one day entered his

house in a troubled manner, pale and fainting, and earnestly called upon

his wife and daughters for some camphor or cologne. These things were

promptly administered, and after he had fairly recovered his speech, his

wife bent over him and said—

“What is the matter with you, my dear?”

To this the invalid replied, “Nothing very serious, I hope, but while

passing along Elm Street I actually saw a man!”

The condition of things in Stratford has somewhat changed during the

past few years, but the quiet and repose of the village are still

delightful. Many of its native citizens continue to live in the pleasant

homes where they were born; others who were tempted to try and obtain

fortunes in New York and other cities were successful, and, like men of

sterling sense, have returned here to spend their declining years in

peace.

That such a town as Stratford should afford anything in the way of

romantic personal histories was hardly to be expected, but the subjoined

story is authentic as well as interesting. At the commencement of the

present century a young man made his appearance in the village, and

spent a few weeks at the tavern which then existed to afford shelter to

stage-coach travellers. Whence he came and what his business, none could

guess. Directly opposite the tavern stood the small cottage and the

forge of a blacksmith named Folsom. He had a daughter who was the beauty

of the village, and it was her fortune to captivate the heart of the

young stranger. He told his love, said that he was from Scotland, that

he was travelling incog., but in confidence gave her his real name,

claiming that he was heir to a large fortune. She returned his love, and

they were married. A few weeks thereafter the stranger told his wife

that he must visit New Orleans; he did so, and the gossips of the town

made the young wife unhappy by their disagreeable hints and jeers. In a

few months the husband returned, but before a week had elapsed he

received a large budget of letters, and told his wife that he must at

once return to England, and must go alone. He took his departure, and

the gossips had another glorious opportunity to make a confiding woman

wretched. To all but herself it was a clear case of desertion; the wife

became a mother, and for two years lived on in silence and in hope. At

the end of that time a letter was received by the Stratford beauty from

her husband, directing her to go at once to New York with her child,

taking nothing with her but the clothes she wore, and embark in a ship

for her home in England. On her arrival in New York she found a ship

splendidly furnished with every convenience and luxury for her comfort,

and two servants ready to obey every wish that she might express. The

ship duly arrived in England, and the Stratford girl became the mistress

of a superb mansion, and, as the wife of a baronet, was known as Lady

Stirling of Glorat. On the death of her husband many years ago, the

Stratford boy succeeded to the title and wealth of his fathers, and in

the “Peerage and Baronetage” he is spoken of as the issue of “Miss

Folsom of Stratford, North America.” When the late Professor Silliman

visited England some years since, he had the pleasure of meeting Lady

Stirling at a dinner party, and was delighted to answer her many

questions about her birthplace in Connecticut.

If this paper were designed to be a complete history of Stratford, it

would be necessary to print many pages about the early struggles and

subsequent success of religion in this region. That is out of the

question; but, on account of the personal history of one most

interesting divine and author connected with it, a passing notice of the

Episcopal Church in Stratford is indispensable. It was the first

established in Connecticut, and its founder was one who left the

Puritans to become an Episcopalian, and whose name was Samuel Johnson.

He was born at Guilford, Connecticut, October 14, 1696, where were also

born his father and grandfather, both men of distinction, and deacons in

the Congregational Church, while his great-grandfather, who came from

Yorkshire, England, was one of the first settlers of New Haven. He was

educated at the College of Saybrook, which subsequently found a

permanent resting-place in New Haven, and after the change of location,

and while only twenty years of age, he became a tutor in what is now

known as Yale College; was honoured with the degree of Master of Arts;

and was the first man who, in 1718, lodged and set up housekeeping in

the institution. In 1720 he became a preacher of the Gospel, and was

settled at West Haven as a Congregationalist. He soon afterwards became

the leader of a party of three or four who pioneered their way into the

Episcopal Church, and, resigning his charge, he went to England to

obtain orders, received from Oxford and Cambridge the degree of Master

of Arts, and in 1723 was settled in Stratford as the first regularly

ordained Episcopal clergyman in the colony. At first his flock consisted

of only thirty families, and the persecutions which he endured from the

Congregationalists were almost unparalleled. Some of them went so far as

to put chains across their streets to prevent the horrible Episcopalians

from going to church, while others would not sell him vegetables and

other country produce for the support of his family. His great ability,

however, as well as his high character as a man and a Christian,

overcame all these obstacles, and he was triumphantly successful.

On the arrival in this country of Berkeley (the Dean of Derry and Bishop

of Cloyne) in 1729, the rector of Stratford became his intimate friend,

corresponded with him for many years, introduced his works to the

_literati_ of America, made him so interested in Yale College as to

secure a present of one thousand valuable books to that institution, as

well as a present of ninety acres of land in Rhode Island for its

benefit. After a continuous battle of twenty years in behalf of his

Church, the University of Oxford conferred upon our rector the degree of

Doctor of Divinity, which honour was followed by many kind letters from

the best men in England. In 1754, against his own wishes, but because

eminent friends told him it was his duty, he accepted the presidency of

the newly-established King’s College in New York (now Columbia College),

where his services were invaluable until 1762, when he returned to

Stratford to spend the remainder of his days in ease and leisure. Here

he died on the 6th of January 1772, and lies buried in the graveyard of

Christ Church, where two church buildings were erected under his eye,

and were the predecessors of the present tasteful edifice occupying the

same site. On the monument which commemorates his death are inscribed,

after a Latin inscription, the following lines:—

      “If decent _dignity_ and modest mien,

      The cheerful _heart_ and countenance serene;

      If pure _religion_ and unsullied truth,

      His _age’s_ solace, and his search in youth;

      If _piety_ in all the paths he trod,

      Still rising vigorous to his Lord and God;

      If _charity_ thro’ all the race he ran,

      Still willing well, and doing good to man;

      If LEARNING, free from pedantry and pride;

      If FAITH and VIRTUE, walking side by side;

      If well to mark his being’s aim and end,

      To shine through life a HUSBAND, FATHER, FRIEND,—

      If _these_ ambition in thy soul can raise,

      Excite thy reverence, or demand thy praise;

      _Reader_, ere yet thou quit this earthly scene,

      Revere his name, and be what he has been.”

                  MYLES COOPER.

For a sketch of the life of Doctor Johnson, and an eloquent estimate of

his exalted character as the first scholar of the day in America, the

reader is referred to a small volume, published in 1805, by Dr. Thomas

B. Chandler, of New Jersey, while the subjoined list of his writings

will afford an opportunity of estimating his services as an author,

viz., “Plain Reasons for Conforming to the Church;” “Compendium of Logic

and Metaphysics,” printed by Franklin; “Demonstration on the

Reasonableness and Duty of Prayer;” “Beauty of Holiness in the Worship

of the Church of England;” an English grammar, a Church catechism, a

Hebrew grammar, an English and Hebrew grammar, and a variety of

pamphlets on theological and literary subjects, published between the

years 1732 and 1771.

Another man of note associated with Stratford was William S. Johnson,

son of Dr. Samuel. He was born here October 7, 1727, graduated at Yale

College in 1744, and was a lawyer of distinction and an eloquent orator.

In 1765 and 1785 he was a delegate to the Congress at New York, and in

1776 an agent for the colony to England, where he formed the

acquaintance of many leading men. In 1772 he was Judge of the

Connecticut Supreme Court, and a member of the convention that formed

the Federal Constitution. He was also a Senator in Congress from 1789 to

1791; received from Oxford the degree of Doctor of Laws; and from 1792

to 1800 he was president of Columbia College, New York, after which he

returned to Stratford, where he died November 14, 1819, and lies buried

by the side of his distinguished father.

As allusions have already been made to five generations of the Johnson

family of Stratford, it may here be mentioned, for the sake of

completeness, that Samuel William Johnson, a lawyer and judge of retired

habits, was the son of the senator, and that his son, William Samuel

Johnson, is the present representative of the family, who has several

brothers to participate with him in bearing the honoured name. And this

fact brings us (as did the courtesy of that gentleman bring the writer

of this chapter) into the Johnson Library of Stratford. This collection

numbers between four and five thousand volumes, and seven generations of

highly educated men have participated in the labour of bringing them

together. It was also enriched by contributions from such men as Bishop

Berkeley, Benjamin Franklin, and Samuel Johnson, the great English

author. The several proprietors of this rare and truly precious private

library have occasionally given away what we might call a swarm of

books; but perhaps the most graceful present of this kind was one of

several hundred volumes, printed between the years 1577 and 1791, and

presented to Columbia College by the present owner. The collection, as

it now stands, is especially rich in theology, the early English

classics, the antiquities of England, the Greek and Latin authors, and

in its dictionaries, with a rare sprinkling of black letter and Elzevir

volumes. Here may also be found several curious editions of the Bible;

but perhaps the most curious, interesting, and valuable single volume is

the “_Icon Basilike_; or, The Works of that Great Monarch and Glorious

Martyr, King Charles I., both Civil and Sacred; and Pourtraicture of his

Sacred Majesty in his Solitudes and Sufferings.” The edition here

mentioned was printed at the Hague in 1648, a few days after the death

of the King, and hence its special value. Those acquainted with the work

need not be told that the proof is quite conclusive as to its having

been the veritable production of the king, though long disputed; that it

went through fifty editions in one year; that Hume declares it to have

led to the restoration of the royal family; that it was greatly praised

even by Milton, the personal friend of Cromwell; that, as the alleged

production of the murdered sovereign, it caused an intense interest

throughout the world; and that the critics of the time pronounced it the

best specimen of English writing then in existence.

The man whose taste and learning are chiefly represented by this

admirable library was the Reverend Dr. Samuel Johnson. Here it was that,

after his return from New York, surrounded by these venerable tomes, he

lived the happy and peaceful life of a Christian scholar, and kept up an

extensive correspondence with the most learned and eminent men of

England and America. And that mass of correspondence, which is still

preserved with an elaborate journal kept by Dr. Samuel, may perhaps be

considered the very cream of the Johnson library. That portion of it

bearing upon church history has already been extensively studied by

clerical pilgrims from all parts of the land; while that portion which

is of a miscellaneous character, addressed to the rector and senator, is

quietly awaiting the fate of all unpublished correspondence by men of

distinction. From the latter collection the writer of this article has

been permitted to copy three letters by Bishop Berkeley, Benjamin

Franklin, and the great Samuel Johnson of England, the reading of which

cannot but be interesting, as fresh material bearing upon the characters

of the several distinguished writers.

The first of the letters in question, from the Bishop, exhibits the

interest which he felt in King’s College, New York, as well as the

methodical character of his mind:—

                    “CLOYNE, _August 23, 1749_.

  “REV. SIR,—I am obliged for the account you have sent of the

  prosperous state of learning in your college of New Haven. I

  approve of the regulations made there, and am particularly

  pleased to find your sons have made such progress, as appears

  from their elegant address to me in the Latin tongue. It must

  indeed give me a very sensible satisfaction to hear that my weak

  endeavours have been of some service to that part of the world.

  I have two letters of yours at once on my hands to answer, for

  which business of various kinds must be my apology. As to the

  first, wherein you enclosed a small pamphlet relating to

  tar-water, I can only say in behalf of those points in which the

  ingenious author seems to differ from me, that I advance nothing

  which is not grounded on experience, as may be seen at large in

  Mr. Prior’s narrative of the effects of tar-water, printed three

  or four years ago, and which may be supposed to have reached

  America.

  “For the rest, I am glad to find a spirit towards learning

  prevails in those parts, particularly New York, where you say a

  college is projected, which has my best wishes. At the same

  time, I am sorry that the condition of Ireland, containing such

  numbers of poor uneducated people, for whose sake charity

  schools are erecting throughout the kingdom, obligeth us to draw

  charities from England; so far are we from being able to extend

  our bounty to New York, a country, in proportion, much richer

  than our own. But as you are pleased to desire my advice upon

  this undertaking, I send the following hints, to be enlarged and

  improved by your own judgment.

  “I would not advise the applying to England for charters or

  statutes (which might cause great trouble, expense, and delay),

  but to do the business quietly within yourselves.

  “I believe it may suffice to begin with a president and two

  fellows. If they can procure but three fit persons, I doubt not

  the college, from the smallest beginnings, would grow

  considerable. I should conceive good hopes were you at the head

  of it.

  “Let them by all means supply themselves out of the seminaries

  in New England; for I am apprehensive none can be got in Old

  England (who are willing to go) worth sending.

  “Let the Greek and Latin classics be well taught. Be this the

  first care as to learning. But the principal care must be good

  life and morals, to which (as well as to study) early hours and

  temperate meals will much conduce.

  “If the terms for degrees are the same as at Oxford or

  Cambridge, this would give credit to the college, and pave the

  way for admitting their graduates _ad eundem_ in the English

  Universities.

  “Small premiums in books, or distinctions in habit, may prove

  useful encouragements to the students.

  “I would advise that the building be regular, plain, and cheap,

  and that each student have a room (about ten feet square) to

  himself.

  “I recommended this nascent seminary to an English bishop, to

  try what might be done there. But by his answer it seems the

  Colony is judged rich enough to educate its own youth.

  “Colleges, from small beginnings, grow great by subsequent

  bequests and benefactions. A small matter will suffice to set

  one agoing; and when this is once well done, there is no doubt

  it will go on and thrive. The chief concern must be to set out

  in a good method, and introduce from the first a good taste into

  society. For this end its principal expense should be in making

  handsome provision for the president and fellows.

  “I have thrown together these few crude thoughts for you to

  ruminate upon and digest in your own judgment, and propone from

  yourself, as you see convenient.

  “My correspondence with patients that drink tar-water obliges me

  to be less punctual in corresponding with my friends; but I

  shall always be glad to hear from you. My sincere good wishes

  and prayers attend you in all your laudable undertakings.—I am,

  your faithful servant,

                           “G. CLOYNE.”

The next letter, which has never been published, is from Benjamin

Franklin. Like everything he wrote, it is characteristic of the man:—

                 “PHILADELPHIA, _August 9, 1750_.

  “REV. SIR,—At my return home I found your favour of June the

  28th, with the Bishop of Cloyne’s letter enclosed, which I will

  take care of, and beg leave to keep a little longer.

  “Mr. Francis, our Attorney-General, who was with me at your

  house, from the conversation then had with you, and reading some

  of your pieces, has conceived an esteem for you equal to mine.

  The character we have given of you to the other trustees, and

  the sight of your letters relating to the academy, has made them

  very desirous of engaging you in that design, as a person whose

  experience and judgment would be of great use in forming rules

  and establishing good methods in the beginning, and whose name

  for learning would give it a reputation. We only lament that, in

  the infant state of our funds, we cannot make you an offer equal

  to your merit. But as the view of being useful has most weight

  with generous and benevolent minds, and in this affair you may

  do great service, not only to the present, but to future

  generations, I flatter myself sometimes that if you were here

  and saw things as they are, and conversed a little with our

  people, you might be prevailed with to remove. I would therefore

  earnestly press you to make us a visit as soon as you

  conveniently can, and in the meantime let me represent to you

  some of the circumstances as they appear to me.

  “1. The trustees of the academy are applying for a charter,

  which will give an opportunity of improving and modelling our

  constitution in such a manner as, when we have your advice,

  shall appear best. I suppose we shall have power to form a

  regular college. 2. If you would undertake the management of the

  English education, I am satisfied the trustees would on your

  account make the salary £100 sterling (they have already voted

  £150 currency, which is not far from it), and pay the charge of

  your removal. Your son might also be employed as tutor at £60,

  or perhaps £70 per annum. 3. It has been long observed that our

  church is not sufficient to accommodate near the number of

  people who would willingly have seats there. The buildings

  increase very fast towards the south end of the town, and many

  of the principal merchants now live there, which, being at

  considerable distance from the present church, people begin to

  talk much of building another; and ground has been offered as a

  gift for that purpose. The trustees of the academy are,

  three-fourths of them, members of the Church of England, and the

  rest men of moderate principles. They have reserved in the large

  building a large hall for occasional preaching, public lectures,

  orations, etc.; it is seventy feet by sixty, furnished with a

  handsome pulpit, seats, etc. In this Mr. Tennent collected his

  congregation, who are now building a meeting-house. In the same

  place, by giving now and then a lecture, you might with equal

  ease collect a congregation that would in a short time build you

  a church (if it should be agreeable to you).

  “In the meantime, I imagine you will receive something

  considerable yearly arising from marriages and christenings in

  the best families, not to mention presents that are not

  unfrequent from a wealthy people to a minister they like; and

  though the whole may not amount to more than a due support, yet

  I think it will be a comfortable one. And when you are well

  settled in a church of your own, your son may be qualified by

  years of experience to succeed you in the academy; or if you

  rather choose to continue in the academy, your son might

  probably be fixed in the church.

  “These are my private sentiments, which I have communicated only

  with Mr. Francis, who entirely agrees with me. I acquainted the

  trustees that I would write to you, but could give them no

  dependence that you would be prevailed on to remove. They will,

  however, treat with no other till I have your answer.

  “You will see by our new paper, which I enclose, that the

  Corporation of this city have voted £200 down and £100 a year

  out of their revenues to the trustees of the academy. As they

  are a perpetual body, choosing their own successors, and so not

  subject to be changed by the caprice of a governor or of the

  people, and as eighteen of the members (some of them leading)

  are of the trustees, we look on this donation to be as good as

  so much real estate, being confident it will be continued as

  long as it is well applied, and even increased if there should

  be occasion. We have now near £5000 subscribed, and expect some

  considerable sums besides may be procured from the merchants of

  London trading hither. And as we are in the centre of the

  colonies, a healthy place, with plenty of provisions, we suppose

  a good academy here may draw numbers of youth for education from

  the neighbouring colonies and even from the West Indies.

  “I will shortly print proposals for publishing your prices by

  subscription, and disperse them among my friends along the

  continent. My compliments to Mrs. Johnson and your son, and Mr.

  and Mrs. Walker, your good neighbours.—I am, with great esteem

  and respect, sir, your most humble servant,

                           “B. FRANKLIN.

  “To Dr. Samuel Johnson, Stratford.”

  “_P. S._—There are some other things best treated of when we

  have the pleasure of seeing you. It begins now to be pleasant

  travelling; I wish you would conclude to visit us in the next

  month at furthest. Whether the journey produce the effect we

  desire or not, it shall be no expense to you.”

The last of the choice letters to which allusion has been made, was

written by the author of “Rasselas” to his friend William S. Johnson,

the Senator. That gentleman received several others from his illustrious

namesake (but who was not a relative), all of which have been lost

excepting the one now printed for the first time. When written, Boswell

must have been asleep, as he does not mention it in his microscopic

publication. The allusion in the letter to an Arctic sea would have

surprised the late Dr. E. K. Kane:—

  “SIR,—Of all those whom the various vicissitudes of life have

  brought within my notice, there is scarce any man whose

  acquaintance I have more desired to cultivate than yours. I

  cannot indeed charge you with neglecting me, yet our mutual

  inclination could never gratify itself with opportunities; the

  current of the day always bore us away from one another. And now

  the Atlantic is between us.

  “Whether you carried away an impression of me as pleasing as

  that which you left me of yourself, I know not; if you did, you

  have not forgotten me, and will be glad that I do not forget

  you. Merely to be remembered is indeed a barren pleasure, but it

  is one of the pleasures which is more sensibly felt as human

  nature is more exalted.

  “To make you wish that I should have you in my mind, I would be

  glad to tell you something which you do not know; but all public

  affairs are printed, and as you and I had no common friends, I

  can tell you no private history.

  “The Government, I think, grows stronger; but I am afraid the

  next general election will be a time of uncommon turbulence,

  violence, and outrage.

  “Of literature no great product has appeared or is expected. The

  attention of the people has for some years been otherwise

  employed.

  “I was told two days ago of a design which must excite some

  curiosity. Two ships are in preparation, which are under the

  command of Captain Constantine Phipps, to explore the Northern

  Ocean; not to seek the North-east or the North-west passage, but

  to sail directly north, as near the pole as they can go. They

  hope to find an open ocean, but I suspect it is one mass of

  perpetual congelation. I do not much wish well to discoveries,

  for I am always afraid they will end in conquest and robbery.

  “I have been out of order this winter, but am grown better. Can

  I ever hope to see you again? or must I be always content to

  tell you that in another hemisphere I am, sir, your most humble

  servant,

                          “SAML. JOHNSON.

  “JOHNSON’S COURT, FLEET STREET,

     “LONDON, _March 4, 1773_.

  “To Dr. Johnson, in Stratford, Connecticut.”

A desultory account of Stratford, like the present, should not omit an

allusion to General David Wooster, who was born here in 1711. He

graduated at Yale College in 1738, served as the captain of an armed

vessel in the Spanish war, as a captain of militia in the expedition

against Louisburg in 1745, went to France with a lot of prisoners, and

from thence to England, when he received certain honours, served as

commandant of a brigade in the French war, espoused the cause of America

in 1764, aided in defending New York, had command of our troops in

Canada, where he rendered important services, was subsequently made a

Major-General of the Connecticut militia, and during a skirmish with the

British troops at the time of their incursion to Danbury in 1776,

received a shot which terminated his life in a few days. He was a brave

officer, an ardent patriot, and a man of the highest integrity and

virtue.

Another gallant soldier who was born and died in Stratford, was Colonel

Aaron Benjamin. He served in the Revolutionary War as a Lieutenant, a

Captain, and an Adjutant; was honoured with the personal friendship of

La Fayette; and, as a Colonel in the army, had command of Fort Trumbull

during the last war with England. With regard to his family, the

singular fact is mentioned that John Benjamin was the name borne by the

eldest sons of no less than seven generations. Nor should it be

forgotten that the American Navy has also a representative in Stratford,

which is the residence of the present Commodore Joshua R. Sands, whose

father was once a Senator in Congress from New York.

But a few additional words must be devoted to the Stratford of the

present time. A love of religion and of the intellectual and beautiful

seems to permeate its entire population; and although its two leading

denominations of Christians were wont to battle valiantly for the cause

of truth and prejudice in the olden times, the most perfect harmony now

exists between them, and both alike deserve honourable mention for what

they have accomplished. To church people alone the history of the

Congregational Church is quite as interesting as that of the Episcopal,

but the latter had the advantage on the score of general interest on

account of its distinguished founder. Among the novelties of Church

government in those Puritan days was that of seating the congregation,

by a committee, according to age, rank, and property; and, in 1718, it

was directed that the “married men and _ancient bachelors_ be seated in

the west gallery of the Congregational Church, and the married women and

_ancient maidens_ in the east gallery.” The first church of this

denomination was organised about the year 1640; and as the Episcopalians

now stand up when the Gospels are read, so did the Presbyterians stand

in their seats when the minister gave out his text; and while, in New

Haven and elsewhere, the people were convened for worship by the blowing

of a horn, here, in Stratford, they enjoyed the ringing of a bell.

American literature has also been enriched by two citizens of Stratford,

viz., Rev. J. Mitchell and J. Olney, Esq. “The Reminiscences of Scenes

and Characters of College, by a Graduate of Yale,” the work of the

former, is an exceedingly well written volume, useful in purpose, and

full of sound wisdom and Christian feeling. And the same compliment may

be paid to his other productions, viz., “Notes from Over the Sea,” “My

Mother; or, Recollections of Maternal Influence,” “Days of Boyhood,” a

tale entitled “Rachell Kell,” and “The New England Churches,” in which

the subject of Congregationalism is well-nigh exhausted. This gentleman

was also for many years editor of the _Christian Spectator_ in New

Haven, and his books were published anonymously. The school geographies

and histories of the latter are well known, as having acquired an almost

unequalled circulation. While the art treasures of the town are not

extensive, there are a few pictures here which will be found worth

hunting up by men of taste. In the Johnson Library may be found the best

portrait extant of Jonathan Edwards, a connection of the family, painted

by or copied after Copley; one of Rev. Dr. Johnson, also by Copley; one

of Senator Johnson, by Stuart; and a print of Samuel Johnson of England,

after Reynolds, which was presented to Senator Johnson by the original,

and pronounced by him the best likeness ever executed. In other mansions

are to be found some of the best pictures after Guido, Da Vinci, and

other old masters, ever brought to this country—two admirable paintings

by the French artist De Lacroix. And by way of proving that the

Stratfordites are lovers of music, we only need to mention the fact that

amateur concerts are constantly given here, graced by the presence of

ladies of rare intelligence and beauty, which are seldom equalled in

other parts of the country.

           THE BOY-HUNTER OF CHICOUTIMIE.

Chicoutimie is an oasis of incipient civilisation, located in the

Hudson’s Bay Territory, and surrounded on all sides by a pathless

wilderness. Its appearance on the map is that of an oblong square,

eighty miles long by forty wide; and while about one-third of the

northern part embraces Lake St. John, the remaining portion is equally

divided by the wild waters of the Upper Saguenay. It consists of two

parishes, is intersected by a good road leading from the head of

navigation on the Saguenay river to the Hudson’s Bay Post on Lake St.

John, and contains some four or five hamlets, or small villages,

including Chicoutimie, Grand Bay Village, and the Blue Point Settlement;

and the population is chiefly composed of Habitants (or French

Canadians) and Indians. The principal business of the district is

connected with the fur trade and lumbering. The first was established

towards the latter part of the seventeenth century by the Hudson’s Bay

Company, and has continued under that exclusive jurisdiction until the

present time; and the idea of establishing extensive lumber-mills in

this remote region originated with the late William Price of Quebec, who

was for many years the “Lumber King of Canada.” It was chiefly through

his individual enterprise that the post of Chicoutimie became an

important shipping place for deals and timber, and all the improvements

which he commenced for the welfare of the people in that region have

been and are still continued by his sons, David and William E. Price. It

was while upon an angling expedition with the former of these gentlemen,

in 1847, that the writer captured his first Canadian salmon, and he it

was who had the pleasure of entertaining the Prince of Wales during his

visit to the Lower Saguenay in 1860.

But it is on account of its varied and charming scenery that the

district of Chicoutimie deserves particular mention. After ascending the

Saguenay from its mouth to the village and post of Chicoutimie, just

below the head of the tide, and having gazed with wonder and admiration

upon its deep and sullen waters and towering cliffs—described by the

present writer more than twenty years ago—the summer tourist will find

that the lakes and rivers of Chicoutimie, which all pay tribute to the

magnificent Saguenay, are not one whit less impressive and interesting.

Foremost among its attractions is Lake St. John, the aboriginal name of

which was Peaquagomi, or _broad shallow water_. The length of the lake

is nearly thirty miles, and its width about twenty. The hills which

surround it on all sides vary in height from seven hundred feet on the

south side to perhaps two thousand on the north. At the same time,

extensive reaches of flat and cultivatable land extend in various

directions; while the whole aspect of the surrounding country is that of

a dense forest, composed of the white birch and white pine, the balsam,

spruce, cedar, elm, poplar, ash, yellow birch, basswood, maple,

tamarack, and a little oak. Although the lake is two degrees of latitude

directly north of Quebec, Indian corn, wheat, and other grains ripen

well in the few settlements; and all the garden vegetables thrive as

well as they do at Montreal. The fish of the lake consist of salmon and

trout, a large variety of pike, a kind of whitefish, and chub. All the

northern varieties of wild-fowl are also abundant. As the seasons

change, its waters rise at times as high as fifteen feet; and, when at

their lowest mark, portions of the lake are skirted with sandy beaches

of great length, and very remarkable width. It is navigated chiefly by

the birch canoe of the Indian, and its primeval solitude is only

relieved by the screaming of birds, as they float or swoop over its

waters, or by the presence of the toiling lumbermen, as they wield the

axe in winter in the dim woods, or sing their wild songs while piloting

their extensive rafts in summer. But the one particular in which Lake

St. John differs from all similar lakes on this continent is in regard

to its large and numerous tributaries, and it might also be awarded the

compliment of being the fountain-head of one of the most superb rivers

on the globe.

The principal rivers that flow into the lake are, first, La Belle

Riviere, which comes in from the south, is about twenty yards in width,

and has a beautiful fall nearly one hundred feet high; further on to the

westward is the Metabetchouan, about twice as large as the former, and

at the mouth of which is located a trading post of the Hudson’s Bay

Company; next comes the Ouiatchouan, upon which is a fall of one hundred

and thirty feet in height, and near the mouth of which are two lovely

islands; and farther on is the Ouiatchouanish, which runs out of a lake

known as Commissioner Lake, particularly famous for its water-fowl of

many varieties, and as a breeding-place for wild geese. The next two

rivers are the Chamouchouan and the Mistassini, each of which is about

half a mile wide, and when the waters of the lake are high, they join

into one current for several miles before reaching the lake. A river,

called the Peribonka, comes down from the north, and is noted for a

continuous alternation of still and rapid water, for its great variety

of scenery, and because, before reaching the lake, it is compelled to

cross a sand beach, which is not less than two miles wide. It has been

estimated that these several streams drain a country, or basin, of not

less than five thousand square miles in extent; and after they have

coalesced and formed the whole lake of St. John, they rest in peace for

a little while, and gathering themselves for a new career of activity,

glide quietly through a maze of islands into two outlets, known as the

Great and the Little Discharge, and win themselves a splendid name as

the Upper Saguenay. This part of the great river averages about half a

mile in width, and from the parent lake to the vicinity of the village

of Chicoutimie, a distance of about thirty-five miles, it consists of a

succession of rapids, tumbling over a great variety of rocky strata;

portions of the stream may be navigated by the birch canoe, but for the

most part it is only enlivened by the presence of lumbermen, driving

down their logs to the mills at the head of tide water. As there is a

district and a village named Chicoutimie, so is there a river bearing

the same name. It is the leading tributary of the Upper Saguenay, and is

the outlet of two beautiful lakes bearing the names of Kenogami and

Kenogamish, which combine with the Chicoutimie River and La Belle

Riviere to form a water communication between the Lower Saguenay and

Lake St. John.

With regard to the original inhabitants of the country surrounding this

lake, the best authorities assert that it was the great rendezvous for

the Montagnais, Nasquapee, and other Indian tribes, who spoke dialects

of the Algonquin tongue. In 1671, a French missionary, named Saint

Simon, made the first voyage from the St. Lawrence to Hudson’s Bay, by

the route of the Saguenay and Lake St. John. He described it as having

formerly been the place where all the nations inhabiting the country

“between the two seas” assembled to barter their furs. He saw the

representatives of more than twenty nations assembled there. But in a

few years afterwards the population of these regions had greatly

diminished, on account of the small-pox and the wars with the Mohawks.

The Jesuit missions of the Saguenay country commenced as early as 1616;

they were regularly continued for just one hundred years; abandoned for

some unknown cause from 1716 to 1720, when they were again started, but

finally abandoned in 1776. Since that time the Romish Bishops of Quebec

have had them in charge, but the Indians of the present day, fit to work

upon, are few and far between, although the Habitants are all good

Catholics, and appreciate the teachings of the priesthood. And in this

connection the interesting fact may be mentioned, that the inhabitants

of the post of Chicoutimie allege that the first bell ever brought to

North America was hung up in the church of their little hamlet; and

whether true or not, it was cracked about the year 1820, and a piece of

the metal is now in the cabinet of the writer of this paper.

During a late angling expedition to Canada, the writer formed the

acquaintance in Quebec of an interesting youth, who had but recently

returned from a winter’s residence in the inhospitable district of

Chicoutimie. Though not more than seventeen years of age, his love of

wild life and adventure had induced him to forego the comforts of home

in Quebec, and to spend several months among the snow-covered hills of

the farther north; and, failing to find a suitable companion, had

performed the expedition alone. Boy-like, he kept a minute journal of

his daily experiences, noting down all that he saw and heard, and it is

now proposed to lay before the reader a few selections from that

journal, by way of illustrating the manner of life, the productions,

sporting capabilities, and the scenery of Chicoutimie. The young

adventurer left Quebec on the 30th of August in a steamer, accompanied

by his dog Dash, and after a pleasant sail of one hundred and forty

miles down the St. Lawrence, and spending a night in Tadousac, continued

up the Saguenay and landed in the village of Chicoutimie at the close of

the following day.

Off again the next morning, first in a charette, and then in a canoe

manned by two Indians, when his next stopping-place was at an Indian

wigwam on Lake Kenogami. At this lake he killed a number of ducks, and

on reaching the hamlet at the foot of the lake, marked on the maps as

the “Church,” he became domiciled in the cabin of a Habitant, and

commenced his sporting operations. His first venture was after trout,

which he captured with a fly made of oakum (for he had neglected to

bring any regular flies), and also with a piece of squirrel meat for

bait. After his first supper in this lonely and out-of-the-way place, he

was called upon to take a hand in a game of whist, with an Indian girl

for his partner, and moralised upon the circumstance to this effect:

“Her eyes are very black, she is bashful in the extreme, and I have

well-nigh lost my heart already. It’s all very fine to talk about loving

a squaw, but I have seen some Indian girls who would not lose in

comparison with many white ones that I have known. Young squaws are only

brunettes.”

The style of our young sportsman will be found to possess a freshness

which is quite in keeping with his daily experiences:—

_September 4._—Went fishing to-day and caught three kinds of fish. One

of them was a “witloosh,” a fish which resembles the whitefish, only it

is larger and deeper in the belly. Bought a pair of moccasins; and as

Dash was not well, took him over to a neighbouring cabin to consult a

dog doctor. Towards sunset I killed a pair of teal.

_September 6._—Rained cats and dogs all the morning. In the afternoon

explored the whole of this side of Lake Kenogamish in a birch canoe. In

the evening read for an hour in a History of the United States, which

had strayed into this settlement, and which nobody else could read. I

was so unlucky as to put my landlady in the sulks to-day, because I

asked her for a box to sleep on in the middle of the floor, as I could

not stand another night in a bed on account of its _permanent

inhabitants_. I praised her baby, a black little wretch that I would not

have touched with a pole, when she became pleased again, and I was

supplied with a box. Some confounded fool has spread a report that I

have got £200 in my pocket. I suppose he may have seen a roll of bills,

but they were all one-dollar bills. I am afraid now the Habitants will

charge me extravagantly for anything I may want.

_September 8._—The box wouldn’t do, and so I have changed my quarters.

The “blood of this Englishman” was not intended to be squandered after

this fashion.

_September 9._—A charette passed the house to-day, upon which was

fastened a canoe. Following behind was a Scotchman, attended by two

_voyageurs_; they were on their way to Lake St. John for a week’s

shooting. If I had not been so shy, and had asked the stranger in to

take a cup of coffee, I might have been invited to join the party. An

old trapper entertained me with his talk to-night. He told me that his

line of traps usually extended about twenty miles, and that his camp was

about midway between the two extremities. It took him four days to visit

all the traps travelling on snow-shoes, and when he caught fifty marten

in one winter he was satisfied. He baited with fish or any kind of fresh

meat; carried no provisions for himself but flour and pork; his lodge or

camp was commonly a hole scooped in the snow, the bottom covered with

fir or spruce branches; and for several years past he has received about

one Canadian pound for each of his marten skins. They are more valuable

now than all the other peltries put together.

_September 10._—Little sick, and rather lonesome. Too much black bread

and omelette won’t do; by permission, shot a hen for my dinner with

pistol. Towards evening shot a teal before the house with my gun, and

then went out with my new landlord to watch for musk-rats, shooting two.

One of my rats was shot in the head, and so I secured a capital skin.

Frost on the ground this morning. They say that for every foot of snow

that falls at Lake St. John, which is perhaps twenty miles distant, two

feet fall here.

_September 11._—Moulded bullets in the morning, and waited alone for

musk-rats all the afternoon. Strange thoughts passed through my mind as

I sat there on the banks of the lonely bayou; nor were my feelings

cheered by the continual screaming of a loon. On my way home shot a few

golden plover. In the evening an old trapper, with hair as white as

snow, came in, and I got him to talking, when I was much interested in

his stories of wild life. One of them was about a cannibal. About ten

years ago there was an Indian trader named Pullen, two white men, and an

Indian, who were living at a fort on Pelly river. Provisions were

scarce, and the Indians were bringing nothing in. That was in September,

and in November a fire destroyed nearly everything, including their

ammunition. For a time they lived entirely upon a few furs which they

had saved; but in December the Indian, with his wife and a child, left

for the woods, where they got a few rabbits and roots, while Pullen went

off to a lake to see what relief he could obtain. He was gone five days,

and on his return, with a few fish and a little game, he found that one

man was missing. The survivor said that his companion had died, that he

had been buried, but that the wolves had taken off the body. Pullen saw

some bones in the fireplace, and when told they were the bones of a

deer, he knew better, and his suspicions were aroused. He sought out the

Indian, who had visited the fort unexpectedly, and who confirmed the

horrid suspicions, and soon afterwards the cannibal confessed his crime.

The thought made Pullen sick, and he left the fort, but returned in

three days to look after the wretch, when he found him dead before the

fireplace, a ghastly skeleton.

_September 15 (Sunday)._—Got into a great discussion with my landlord

to-day about the Catholic and Protestant religions, but I am afraid I

was hardly competent to show that ours was the right one. He is a

precious rascal at any rate. He appropriates everything of mine, just as

if it were his own. He takes my powder, shot, caps, brush and comb, and

to-day he even asked me for my cap to wear to church, which I lent him.

This is what they call Indian or half-breed manners, I suppose. Begin to

speak a little Indian.

_September 17._—I have been alone during the entire day, as all the

family went off on some domestic expedition yesterday. Fixed up my own

breakfast, prepared the coffee, fried a piece of pork, and made some

pancakes with flour and water, which I greatly prefer to the confounded

black bread which these people live upon. This afternoon the fields

around the house were covered with birds, which they call “Étourneaux.”

I killed a number, and found them good eating. Also killed a brace of

“quacks,” and have been excited over the news that an Indian killed a

bear at the mouth of La Belle Riviere, where the black fellows and wild

geese are said to be abundant, and I intend soon to go.

_September 28._—I have been on a bear hunt with a man named Bolu, but

we didn’t kill anything but a lot of ducks and partridges. I saw one

spot where a regular beaten path had been made by the bears, and

although we stumbled upon two of them I couldn’t get a good shot, but

Bolu brought one to bay, drew blood from him, and then let him escape.

We encamped on the shore of the St. John, from which point we could

distinctly see the Hudson’s Bay Post, nine miles away. When we were in

camp a canoe came down La Belle Riviere, managed by two Indians, with a

“young lady” on board, half Scotch and half Indian, who was going to do

housework at the Post. I gave her a tip-top breakfast, and she continued

her journey. As we sat in our camp one night Bolu told me this legend: A

long time ago the great Atchocam of the Indians went hunting with lynxes

instead of dogs. Just when he came upon a herd of caribou he called to

the lynxes to help him, when he saw them swimming into the middle of a

lake, where they disappeared. He waded into the lake after them, when

the waters began to rise, and continued to rise until they covered the

whole world. After a while Atchocam became sorry for what he had done,

and, sending an otter a great way down into the waters to get a little

earth, he worked with it until the land became again as it was before,

and the lake—which we call St. John—looked exactly as if nothing had

happened; but along its shores wild cats or lynxes have always been

abundant. This man Bolu is a strange creature, and he is my bedfellow,

or, rather, we sleep under the same blanket. Up to this time my

sleeping-places have been somewhat varied: on a bed and a box when under

a roof, and when out hunting, on spruce or fir boughs, on downy moss,

and on a pebbly beach or flat rock. But I never sleep better than I do

in these forest camps.

_October 2._—We had a terrible hail-storm last night, and to-day it is

bitter cold. Flocks of robins and étourneaux have been passing towards

the south all day. On examining my box of groceries I found that more

than half of my tea had been abstracted. Generally speaking, these

half-breed people are honest, so that this discovery puzzles me. Five

étourneaux alighted near our cabin to-day, and on putting them up I

killed four on the wing. While out in the woods to-day I gathered up an

armful of mosses and brought them to the house to examine. They are all

of them very beautiful and wonderful, and are found everywhere growing

in great luxuriance throughout this region, from Hudson’s Bay to the

eastern coast of Labrador. One of them is called the caribou moss,

because it is the chief winter food of that animal; and another kind,

called _tripe de roche_, is employed as a medicine and in healing

wounds, and in times of scarcity is prepared and used as an article of

food. There is also a very beautiful scarlet lichen, which some of our

naturalists, I am told, have supposed to be identical with the _manna_

of the Bible.

_October 4._—Two magnificent canoes, filled with lumbermen, passed our

house to-day, bound to Lake St. John; and two small canoes, with Indians

in them, passed the house, bound to Chicoutimie. One of my new

acquaintances, a queer stick, wanted me to tattoo his name upon his arm.

I did so; and, after he had endured all the pain, he did not have the

satisfaction of seeing his name; the Indian ink was spurious, and

swelled his arm to an enormous size, and I was afraid he would die. In

that event, he ought certainly to be properly labelled. This afternoon,

in less than half an hour, I killed one partridge, three ortolans, and

thirteen étourneaux. The man I live with has been getting in his

potatoes, and will have a crop of two hundred bushels. The mode of

keeping them for winter use is to bury them in the ground.

_October 9._—Had an attack of croup to-day, and was afraid, if it got

worse, I should be a “gone goose.” There is not a drop of anything about

here in the shape of medicine, excepting a kind of _pain killer_, a

small bottle of which is carried by almost every Canadian in his pocket.

In spite of my bad feelings, however, I went out to a certain spot in

the woods and built myself a cabin, near which I hope to hunt for moose

later in the season. This afternoon I put a few plover out of breath as

they were going towards the south.

_October 17._—Since my last entry I have made an excursion with an

Indian down La Belle Riviere, which runs towards the north, a short

distance along the shore of St. John, and down to a lumber “slide” on

the Little Discharge. We damaged our canoe while passing a rapid, and

were nearly swamped in the lake. There was a heavy fog, and the lake was

white with foam; and, although we could not see them, the air was filled

with the screaming of wild-fowl. We abandoned our canoe at the slide,

and walked back to my quarters, a distance of fifteen miles, through the

woods. I killed five partridges; but, instead of a bear, I demolished a

skunk. All the way from Quebec to kill one of these refreshing

creatures! My dog Dash bothers me. He wants pluck, and spends too much

of his time with his tail between his legs. There is a man here who

wants him, and I think I shall sell. Perhaps the dog does not like this

vagabond life that his master is leading. Does he think that

sleigh-riding with the pretty girls in Quebec would pay better? or that

I ought to be at home studying “like a dog”? Time enough for those

duties yet.

_October 22._—Killed a musk-rat before sunrise this morning. I enjoy

hunting for these creatures very much, for it is generally so still on

the banks of the streams where they are found, and this being in the

woods, entirely alone, seems to do me good in many ways. In old times,

the hunters tell me, musk-rat skins were extensively used in

manufacturing _beaver_ hats, and were a profitable peltry. Musk-rats are

nocturnal in their habits, but in their more secluded haunts frequently

leave their holes and wander about, swimming on the top of the water.

They live upon roots and vegetables, and in spite of their musky flavour

are eaten by the Indians. Like the beaver, they build little houses for

the comfort of their families, but are without the wisdom or cunning of

the superior animal; and while they resemble the other in general

appearance, they do not capture fish for a living, nor swim with the

same rapidity; but whatever naturalists may say, it seems to me that

there is not any greater difference between these several inhabitants of

the wilderness, than we find existing between the white, Indian, and

negro races of men. In the afternoon I was up in the woods with only my

axe, making a road, when Dash put up a hare, which came within ten feet

of me and squatted on his hind legs, as if he had something to say, and

then disappeared. Immediately afterwards the dog started a cock

partridge, which quietly perched upon a tree within twelve feet of me.

This impudence provoked me, and I threw the axe at the bird, but without

effect. After considering the matter, I think I acted like a fool.

Perhaps that innocent bird had an affection for me, and how mean it was

in me to be angry because I could not take its life.

_October 31._—I returned from a trip to Paribonca this morning,

disgusted. We started full of hope; camped the first night on the

outside island, near the mouth of the Little Discharge, and there met a

chap, in the employ of the Prices, who was searching for two boats that

had drifted away from the Post. He was a very funny fellow; had been all

over the world; fought in the Crimea and in India as a soldier; and had

once been captain of a gun on board a man-of-war. We enjoyed a pork

breakfast together immensely. While at that camp we heard that there

were large numbers of geese at Paribonca, but at the same time that an

entire tribe of Indians had gone there to lay in a winter supply of

provisions. When we started on our return I _felt_ as Dash usually

_looks_ when his tail is down. This is just the season when the wild

geese leave the north for a sojourn in the far south, during the time of

frost and snow. Their advent is hailed with great delight by the

Indians, and they inaugurate this harvest-time by various ceremonies,

incantations, and dances. The same interest is again manifested in the

spring, when the geese leave the south, and return to spend a short

summer in the north, where they rear their young. Before leaving the

lake, we spent a night with a lot of thirsty raftsmen, who were a jolly

set of fellows, and among whom were a set of Yankees.

_November 1.—All Saints’ Day._—More than half the people in the

settlement went to church last night to practise singing, and my host, I

find, is leader of the choir. This has been a quiet day with me, and I

have been reading and writing letters. The people are afraid to stir out

of their houses to-night, as they believe all the dead come out of their

graves on this particular night, and sit upon them to beg for prayers,

and do not return to their coffins until to-morrow night. Masses were

held all day in the church for the souls of the dead.

_November 2._—To-day I enjoyed a novel kind of sport, that of

_shooting_ trout in Lac Vert, a beautiful sheet of water near here. The

trout have a habit, at this season, of swimming near the shore, and

concealing myself in the bushes near by, I saw them distinctly, and

fired away as if they had been birds. I killed a good lot of them, most

of them measuring about eighteen inches in length. Sometimes the Indians

shoot very large ones in that way.

_November 4._—Went trout-shooting again to-day, and had tip-top luck,

so far as the fish were concerned, but wound up by falling head first

into the water from an overhanging tree, at the very instant I was about

to fire. As there had been a storm, and the weather was cold, I had a

miserable time. My companion made a fire, and after warming myself, and

drying my clothes, we returned home.

_November 13._—The ground is everywhere covered with snow, two or three

feet deep, and for several days I have been setting traps for marten and

hare. Provisions are getting scarce in the settlement, and the people

seem to be dreadfully poor. No bread, butter, or meat in the house, and

we are living on potatoes and milk. I took a drive to-day, in a cariole,

to a lake nine miles off; stopped long enough to get six partridges. On

my return, my host wanted me to shoot an old horse of his which he

thought was dying; I did so, and the family are counting upon a good

supply of soap _fat_. But I am amazed that they should ever talk of

_soap_ in this region.

_November 20._—The lakes and rivers were all frozen hard last night,

for the first time this season. I longed for my skates, and after some

trouble managed to borrow a pair; but they were so rickety and dull that

I cracked my crown a number of times, and then retired to nurse my wrath

to keep my body warm.

_November 23._—Went to Lac Vert to-day to fish for trout through the

ice; used some spring hooks that I brought with me; didn’t miss a fish,

and brought home a big lot, but I nearly froze to death in the cold

wind. On my return from the lake I visited my traps, and added to my

spoils two hares, one marten, and one mink. Had a talk to-night with my

landlord about beaver. He said they were not as abundant in this region

as formerly, and not in great demand among the fur-traders. After

describing their houses and mode of trapping them, he said that for a

few weeks in each year the beaver was wholly absorbed by the instinct

for building, and that it was quite impossible to interfere with its

mechanical labours at that time. But the most curious fact that he

mentioned was to this effect: One kind of trap occasionally used here is

a small square crate, made of tough wood, into which the young beavers

are easily decoyed, but the old ones never; and it is positively stated,

that when the old beaver finds any of its young imprisoned, it

clandestinely feeds them at night with a poisonous plant, which causes

immediate death. If this be true, it is indeed wonderful that a

representative of the brute creation should prefer death to a life-long

imprisonment.

_November 30._—I have been very near to death’s door to-day. This

morning I started off alone to fish for trout in Lac Vert, my host

promising to join me in two or three hours. On my way out I met a young

acquaintance, who was induced to join me. When we were altogether at one

end of the lake, and had caught several fish, we agreed to go down the

lake to a certain point. I took the lead, and we walked about twenty

yards apart. At a place where the water was fifty feet deep, I broke

through; at first I went completely under; then supported myself by

holding on to the edge of the ice, which, as I tried to get upon, kept

crumbling off, and under would I go again; but after a while, and when

my hands were so benumbed that I could not hold on to anything, but held

myself with my elbows, the men, with the help of two long poles, got me

out alive, and slid me along the ice to the shore. The men then made a

big fire, and while one of them gave me his shirt and the other his

coat, to put on while mine were drying, we soon got ready and made for

home in double-quick time. Had it not been for my companions, I should

most certainly have perished.

_December 12._—The man with whom I have been living heretofore is such

a vagabond that I have been obliged to quit his cabin and find board and

lodging elsewhere. I am now nicely fixed, and pay fifteen dollars per

month for board and lodging. Wheat-bread now, breakfast and pancakes,

all the sugar and tea I want, and I do not have to act as cook. Visited

all my mink traps to-day, and found that they had been sprung by the

cunning weasels. Have bought a pair of moccasins, and find them much

better for snow travelling than any white man’s shoe or boot. My new

host and all his family have been singing to-night, by way of

preparation for Christmas.

_December 20._—Went hunting in a sleigh to-day with a young half-breed;

he drove the pony, and on our return, we were upset; no bones broken,

but one of the guns went off, sending a buckshot through my coat-sleeve,

and lodging two of them in the fleshiest part of my companion’s body,

which I extracted without much harm. If this young man is a careless

driver, he more than makes up the loss by his good looks. He is straight

as an arrow, has intensely black hair, and his usual dress at this

season is a white blanket capote, blue cloth leggings, tight moccasins,

and the scarlet cap usually worn by the better class of Labrador

Indians, altogether forming the combination which the Quebec artist

(Krieghoff) is so fond of painting.

_December 31._—Went down to Chicoutimie village seven days ago on a

little trip, and the Prices were so kind that I accepted their

invitation to spend Christmas. They have a regular little palace, as it

seemed to me. You may judge of my sensations when I saw a table laid out

for me in half an hour after my arrival, covered with all sorts of cold

meats, toast, preserves, etc.; and then the pleasure of looking over

their papers and magazines, of which they take a great number! I was

quite amazed to see the extent of the lumbering operations carried on at

that place, but was more interested in the farm belonging to Messrs.

David and Wm. Price. This farm is very large, and has already cost the

sum of £32,000. It has long been, and is still, under the management of

the same experienced farmer who organised it for the original owner, Wm.

Price. He has separate buildings for the cows, bulls, oxen, calves,

sheep, and pigs, and keeps about fifty horses. The cattle are a cross

between the Canadian and short-horn—a part of the stock for beef and

the balance for hauling timber; and in the summer sawdust, instead of

straw, is used in the various stables; and all the grain and vegetables

which grow around Quebec are found here in equal perfection. The

farmer’s family consists of his wife, four daughters (elegant young

ladies), and two sons; and such a dinner as they gave me I can never

forget. After being treated with so much kindness I found it hard to get

away; but I made a bolt, and came back to my habitant quarters in a

cariole alone.

_January 1._—There was quite a party at our house last night. All the

pretty girls of the settlement were on hand, and we had two or three

cushion dances, or what the French call round dances. I received many

more kisses than were satisfactory. Of course the case would have been

different if some of the dancers had been my old flames. The Quebec

fashion of making visits on New Year’s Day is kept up here, but the

habit of “kissing all round” is carried to a preposterous extent in this

wild region. We’ve had a terrible storm, and the weather is very cold. A

man made his appearance here to-day, connected with the fur-company, who

is about to perform a journey on snow-shoes of two hundred and fifty

miles, and he expects to complete it in eight days.

_January 6._—There was a wedding at the church yesterday morning at

seven o’clock. The victim was one of my habitant cronies. I was invited,

but forgot all about it, and went to look after my snares. As I came

back from the woods the party was returning, and I joined them with my

gun on shoulder. I went the rounds with the married couple, took dinner

at the bride’s house, officiated as master of ceremonies, and had the

seat of honour on the right of the wedded pair. The dancing commenced an

hour or two after dinner, and continued with unabated fury until

daylight this morning, after which there was a lucid interval of a few

hours, when they all went at it again, and as I am about going to bed

decidedly conquered, bedlam still reigns. One of the wedding-guests came

on foot from his surveying camp on the Great Discharge, a distance of

forty miles, and he is going back to-morrow on foot again. Another of

the guests was an Irish pedlar, and the fun which he afforded by his

frolicking, his stories, and his use of Canadian French, was something

rich and rare.

_January 13._—Snow, snow, for two nights and two days, but to-night it

is cold and clear, and the northern lights are perfectly

magnificent—the seven prismatic colours vying to eclipse each other in

brilliancy.

_January 22._—Didn’t feel well this morning, and thinking that exercise

was all I wanted, took a long walk on snow-shoes; on my return, chopped

some wood for my good host, and then amused myself by watching the whole

family while butchering two or three hogs. I am generally fond of fresh

pork, but think I shall not indulge until I reach Quebec.

_January 27._—A great deal of snow has fallen, and the hunters promise

me some good moose-hunting. Doubt it. Haven’t forgotten my blasted

expectations in regard to bear.

_February 4._—Have been upon a visit to the Hudson’s Bay Post on Lake

St. John. It is a strange and lonely place, with the usual number of

hunters and trappers hanging about the store adjoining the factor’s

house. I was shown the room where the peltries are kept. There were

about five hundred beaver skins, a thousand marten, nine hundred mink,

and about a thousand wolf, fox, fisher, and bear skins. Still, they say

this has been one of the poorest years. In sending the peltries down to

Lachine in the summer, they are all packed in lots weighing seventy-five

pounds. Three packs of marten, sent down last year, contained not less

than twenty-two hundred and fifty marten skins, and the total number of

packs was forty. I saw the Hudson’s Bay Company’s stamp or seal, with

the curious motto of “Skin for Skin” in Latin, and made a sketch of the

four one-story-and-a-half buildings which comprise the post. I also saw

here some of those preposterous pieces of wood which the factors give

the poor Indian hunters in the place of money. They are called castors,

and though they answer very well as a kind of due bill, are, of course,

entirely useless except at the post where they are issued. I borrowed at

this place a copy of Dickens’s “Bleak House;” to see a genuine home of

that sort the great novelist ought to visit these parts. This post is

only one of thirty-one belonging to the Montreal Department, while the

Northern Department numbers thirty-four, the Southern Department

twenty-eight, and the Department of Columbia seventeen. The grades

recognised at these posts are seven—a labourer, an interpreter, the

postmaster, the apprentice clerks, full clerks, the trader, and the

chief factor,—and it is thought that three-fourths of the Company’s

servants are Scotchmen, with a large sprinkling of half-breeds and

French Canadians. Returned to the settlement partly on snow-shoes.

Snow-shoeing is splendid.

_March 1._—Have been down to Chicoutimie village again. Was invited to

another wedding at Grand Bay. Went with the farmer’s family. Danced many

times with the young ladies, and one of them made me happy by taking a

seat in my cariole back to Chicoutimie. The next day I drove two of them

over to Grand Bay again, and did not cast a thought on moose or any

other kind of hunting. Altogether I had as pleasant a time as could be

_expected_. Of course the _weather_ prevented me from leaving

Chicoutimie as soon as I at first desired. The weather, however, is

getting spring-like. On my return, I found that my landlord had, for a

whole week, been as “tight as a bucket,” as the Irish pedlar would say.

_March 3._—The winding-up dance of the winter came off last night, for

as soon as Lent begins these people are dreadfully good. As to the

weather, it is all drizzle and slush. A regular rainy season is about

commencing, they say, and before the roads are impassable, I must turn

my face towards Quebec. Snow-shoeing and hunting are about finished for

the season.

_March 9._—Have made my last visit to the Post, where I expected to

make an arrangement for a moose hunt, but only heard that one man had

killed seven caribou during the past week, and while there another

hunter brought in a splendid old moose. When I left Quebec, my chief

hope was that I might at least see a wild moose in these woods, if I

could not kill one; but I have not had a chance to do either, and the

season is breaking up, and I must soon leave the country. From what the

men tell me, perhaps a single hunt would have used me up for ever. The

hunter told me that he fell upon the track of his game more than fifty

miles from Lake St. John; that he followed him two whole days on

snow-shoes, camping out one night without anything to eat; and finally

killed him when in sight of the lake, from which spot he brought him to

the Post on a sledge made of bark.

CHICOUTIMIE VILLAGE, _March 19_.—I came here yesterday from Kenogamish,

my winter quarters, with the postman; and soon after my arrival, my late

landlord of the woods made his appearance, bringing a handsome bearskin

and a pair of moose horns as presents for me. I did my best last night

to make him have a good time, and he bade me good-bye this morning. I

have a little engagement with certain ladies here, and after my duty to

them has been performed, I shall start on my return journey to Quebec.

               PUSHMATAHAW.

Once on a time a delegation of chiefs of the Choctaw nation waited upon

Mr. Calhoun, then Secretary of War, on matters of business connected

with the welfare of their people. After several interviews, and the

business had been finished, the secretary threw aside his official

dignity, and had a long and familiar talk with the chiefs on topics of

mutual interest. Among other things, he said to them that, as they were

all reputed to be the great men of their tribe, he would like to have

them tell him how they had acquired their influence and fame. All eyes

were at once turned upon the head of the delegation, but he pointed to

the youngest man present to begin with his story, and intimated that he

himself would “close the debate.” All the chiefs present then proceeded

in turn, and briefly recounted the leading events of their lives, the

main idea of their several speeches seeming to be that all their

ancestors were very distinguished people. In due time the head chief of

the delegation stood up in his place and uttered these words:—

“Pushmatahaw never had a father nor a mother. A little cloud was once

seen in the northern sky. It came before a rushing wind, and covered the

Choctaw country with darkness. Out of it flew the angry fire. It struck

a large oak, and scattered its limbs and its trunk all along the ground,

and from that spot sprung forth a warrior fully armed for war; and that

man was Pushmatahaw.” It is the history of this man that we now propose

to record, and our principal authority for what follows is Peter

Pitchlynn, the Choctaw chief whose father, John Pitchlynn, was an

intimate friend of the warrior during the long period that he held the

position of interpreter in the Choctaw nation.

Pushmatahaw was born in what is now the State of Mississippi about the

year 1764, and he distinguished himself on the war-path before he had

attained his twentieth year. He joined an expedition against the Osages

on the western side of the Mississippi, and, because of his youth and

propensity for talking, he was a good deal laughed at by the more

experienced men of the party. Every night, after making their

camp-fires, some of the more fluent warriors were wont to deliver

speeches touching their intended movements, and the boy-warrior did not

hesitate to express his views and intentions; but the older men shook

their heads in derision. In due time the war party reached the Osage

country, and a desperate fight soon occurred. It lasted nearly a whole

day, and, when concluded by the defeat of the Osages, it was whispered

around that the boy had disappeared early in the conflict, and he was

condemned as a coward. At midnight he rejoined his friends at their

rendezvous, and they jeered him to his face for running away. To this he

made reply by saying:—“Let those laugh who can show more scalps than I

can,” whereupon he took from his pouch no less than five scalps, and

threw them upon the ground. They were the result of a flank movement

which he had made single-handed on the rear of the enemy. From that

night they looked upon the young warrior as a great man, and gave him

the name of the _Eagle_.

His second expedition to the west was for the harmless purpose of

hunting buffaloes, but met with an unexpected termination. While roaming

on the headwaters of the Red River, he and his party of one hundred were

attacked by a band of five hundred Toranqua Indians, and although

several of his companions were killed, and he lost his favourite

cap—which was ornamented with eagle’s feathers and the rattles of the

rattlesnake—he made his escape into the borders of Mexico, where he

spent several years with the Mexican Indians. On his return to his own

country he went alone in the night to a Toranqua village, where he

killed seven men with his own hand, set fire to several tents, and made

his retreat uninjured.

For a few months afterward he tried hard to lead a quiet life among his

own people, but the old spirit of revenge still rankled in his breast;

and, as he could always count upon any number of followers, during the

next two years he performed three expeditions into the Toranqua country,

and added eight fresh scalps as a fringe to his war costume. The

Toranquas, or Man-eaters, were so named because they sometimes indulged

in cannibalism, and our hero, because of his success in fighting them,

came to be known among his own people as the _Man-eater_. Once, on being

questioned as to the secret of his success in fighting, he simply

replied:—

“I scare them first, and then I whip them.”

Passing over about fifteen years of his life, in regard to which we know

nothing that merits special notice, we find him, in 1810, boasting that

his name was Pushmatahaw, or “_the warrior’s seat is finished_,” and

enjoying the reputation of being a famous ball-player. He was then

living on the Tombigbee, and while engaged in a national game, which

kept him away from home for several days, a party of Creek Indians

visited his cabin and burned it to the ground. His bloodthirsty nature

was at once roused, and, summoning his most faithful friends, he

suddenly invaded the Creek country, killing many of these new enemies

and destroying much of their property. He travelled with such rapidity,

and performed such desperate deeds, that he became a terror to the

entire tribe; and this agreeable pastime he kept up until the

commencement of the English and American war of 1812, when he promptly

took sides with the United States.

The council which decided the course of the Choctaws lasted ten days.

All the warriors and leading men were for neutrality, excepting John

Pitchlynn the interpreter and Pushmatahaw. Up to the last day he had not

uttered a word, but at that time he made the following speech:—“The

Creeks were once our friends. They have joined the English, and we must

now follow different trails. When our fathers took the hand of

Washington, they told him the Choctaws would always be the friends of

his nation, and Pushmatahaw cannot be false to their promises. I am now

ready to fight against both the English and the Creeks. I have seventeen

hundred men, who are willing and ready for battle. You who may wish to

do so, can stay at home and attend to the pots. I and my warriors are

going to Tuscaloosa, and when you hear from us again the Creek fort will

be in ashes.” And his prophecy was duly fulfilled. It was some months

before this period that the great prophet of the Shawnees, Tecumseh’s

brother, visited the Southern Indians, and tried to mass them together

against the United States. He craved an audience with Pushmatahaw, and

was permitted to attend a council at a spot in what is now Noxaby

County. In the course of his speech he said that the earthquake which

had lately occurred was the Great Spirit stamping his foot upon the

ground; that it was a signal for all the Indians to begin war against

the Americans, whose powder would not burn; and that after the victory

they were sure to gain, the buffaloes would come back again into their

country. Pushmatahaw made this reply: “Every word you have uttered is a

lie. You are a prophet, but there are other prophets beside yourself.

The cause of the earthquake no prophet can tell. If it had any meaning,

it was a signal for Pushmatahaw and all his warriors to rush at once

upon the English and all the enemies of the United States. If you were

not my guest, I would make you feel my tomahawk. I advise you to leave

this country at once.”

The Creeks and Seminoles allied themselves to the British. Pushmatahaw

made war upon them with such energy and success that the whites gave him

the title of the Indian _General_, which he and his people considered a

decided advance on his previous titles of warrior, hunter, man-eater,

and ball-player. It was while helping the American cause, and playing

the part of a general, that he one day struck a white soldier with his

sword. When brought up by the officer in command, and questioned as to

his reasons for such conduct, he replied that the soldier had insulted

his wife, and he only struck the offender with the side of his sword to

teach him his duty; but that if the act had been done by an officer

instead of a common soldier, he should have used the sharp edge of his

sword in defence of his wife, who had come from a great distance to

visit him. Indeed, the fearlessness of this man was one of his leading

characteristics; and that trait, allied to his proud and energetic

spirit, gave him unbounded influence among his people. Though delighting

in revenge, and though he had stained his hands in the blood of many

enemies, he was generous to those who were poorer than himself, and

always took pleasure in extending the hospitality of his cabin to

strangers. During all his matured life he indulged in the luxury of two

wives, and he defended his conduct on that score by saying that there

were more women than men in the world, and no woman should be without a

husband. As there was something intemperate in all the actions of his

life, as well when trying to take a scalp as when feasting a friend upon

venison, it was to be expected that he should drink to excess. He seldom

indulged, however, when he had important business on hand; but the

wickedness of being drunk never weighed heavily on his mind. On one

occasion during the war, when he was figuring as “general,” a soldier

was arrested and confined to the guard-house for drunkenness, but when

Pushmatahaw had heard the particulars, he ordered the man to be

released, remarking, “Is that all? many good warriors get drunk.”

At the conclusion of the war he returned to the Tombigbee, hung up his

sword as the principal ornament of his cabin, was made chief of the

Choctaw nation, and devoted a number of years to quiet enjoyment.

It was at this period that the following incident occurred. A large

number of Choctaws, including Pushmatahaw, had come together for the

purpose of having a frolic. When the festivities had reached fever-heat,

two half-breeds, named James Pitchlynn and Jerry Folsom, took it into

their heads to insult the chief, whereupon his friends came to the

rescue and gave the offenders a sound thrashing. One year afterward, as

these half-breeds were sitting together in a cabin and telling some

bystanders, in very glowing language, how they would revenge themselves

upon Pushmatahaw if they ever met him again, it so happened that the

chief made his appearance in front of the house, mounted upon his horse.

He had ridden sixty miles, and was on his way to Columbus, in

Mississippi. On being told who was in the cabin he dismounted and

entered. An embarrassing silence prevailed for some minutes, which was

finally broken by these words from the lips of the chief: “I am glad to

see you, my friends. I have actually shed tears on account of our

trouble last year. We were all drunk and all fools. I offer you the hand

of a friend.” The hand was gladly accepted by the frightened

half-breeds.

But soon the white man began to press upon the hunting-grounds of his

people, and the disagreeable subject of emigrating to the West was

forced upon his attention. He made several treaties with the General

Government, and with one of them, signed in 1820, is connected the

following incident. General Andrew Jackson was the commissioner on the

part of the United States, and one of the stipulations that he

introduced displeased Pushmatahaw, and he refused to affix his name. On

seeing this the General put on all his dignity and thus addressed the

chief:—

“I wish you to understand that I am Andrew Jackson, and, by the Eternal,

you _shall_ sign that treaty as I have prepared it.”

The chief was not disconcerted by this haughty address, and springing

suddenly to his feet, and imitating the manner of his opponent, thus

replied:—

“I know very well who you are, but I wish you to understand that I am

Pushmatahaw, head chief of the Choctaws; and, by the Eternal, I will

_not_ sign that treaty.”

The General concluded that he had found his match in the frontier style

of diplomacy, and, having modified his views, the chief was satisfied,

and then promptly affixed his signature to one of the parchments, which

was to banish the Choctaws from the land of their fathers.

As Pushmatahaw was by nature determined and dictatorial, he very

frequently put himself into positions of great hazard by his official as

well as private conduct, an instance of which occurred at the village of

Columbus in 1823. A Choctaw named Attoba, while crossing a ferry, had

accidentally killed the ferryman with his pistol, and as the deceased

was a white man and popular, the excitement became great, and the Indian

was arrested for the alleged murder. The moment the Choctaw chief heard

of the affair, he went to Columbus and insisted that the prisoner,

whether guilty or not, must be given up to the custody of the Choctaw

nation, to be tried by the Indian laws. The civil authorities objected;

but the chief was furious, and in a speech of great power he said that

no Choctaw had ever spent a night in the white man’s prison, or had ever

been hanged, and that Attoba _must_ be released. The prisoner was

released, and, after undergoing a perfectly fair trial according to the

Choctaw code, it was proven that he had been drinking at the time of the

calamity; that he had long been on the most friendly terms with the

ferryman, and that the killing was purely accidental; whereupon he was

acquitted, and all parties, white as well as red, acquiesced in the

result.

Notwithstanding the fact that Pushmatahaw had taken the lives of many

fellow-beings and had a ferocious disposition, he was greatly beloved by

his own people, as well as by the whites. By the citizens of Mobile

especially he was treated with real affection, and they were in the

habit of speaking of him as the saviour of their city from the

depredations of the Creeks. He was fond of children, and when in the

mood would join them in their little games, and loved to talk with them

about his adventures and the wonders he had seen. Indeed he was greatly

gifted, not only as a story-teller but as a wit, when the spirit moved

him in that direction. He had five children of his own, and although he

could not himself speak a word of English, he took pains to have them as

well educated as his circumstances would allow. As already intimated, he

had a kind of passion for all sorts of games, and especially for the

ball-play, but he was honest in his dealings, and scrupulously observant

of his word. In 1823 he was present at a council near the residence of

his friend, John Pitchlynn, the interpreter. By way of celebrating the

4th of July, the latter personage had given a feast to the resident

Indian agent, at which a number of leading Choctaws were present,

including Pushmatahaw. When the guests were about to depart, it was

observed that he had no horse, and as he was getting to be too old to

prosecute his journey home on foot, the agent suggested to the

interpreter the propriety of presenting him with a horse. This was

agreed to on condition that the chief would promise not to exchange the

horse for whisky; and the old warrior, mounted on a fine young animal,

went on his way rejoicing. It was not long before he visited the agency

on foot, and it was found that he had lost his horse by betting at a

ball-play.

“Did you not promise,” said the agent, “that you would not sell the

horse for whisky?”

“I did so,” replied the chief; “but I did not promise that I would not

risk the animal at a game of ball.”

In 1824 Pushmatahaw went to Washington with a delegation of his

principal men, for the purpose, to use his own style of speaking, of

brightening the chain of peace between the Americans and the Choctaws.

President Monroe and Secretary of War Calhoun both treated him with the

respect due to his position, and with special consideration, on account

of his high bearing, ability, and important services during the war. The

primary object, on the part of the Government, in this negotiation, was

to induce the Choctaws to sell a new portion of their valuable lands in

Mississippi, but the members of the delegation were united in following

the advice of the head chief not to part with any more of their

possessions; and in the American State Papers will be found several

communications from Pushmatahaw, signed by himself and colleagues,

setting forth their reasons for rejecting all overtures.

Soon after his arrival in Washington, Pushmatahaw took a severe cold,

and was too much indisposed to do and say all that he desired; but a

second little speech, which he made to the Secretary of War, has been

preserved. It was to this effect:—

“FATHER,—I have been here some time. I have not talked, because I have

been sick. You shall hear me now. You have no doubt heard of me—I am

Pushmatahaw.

“When in my own country, I often looked toward this council-house, and

wanted to come here. I am in trouble, and will tell you why. I feel like

a small child, not half as high as his father, who comes up to look in

his father’s face, hanging in the bend of his arm, to tell him his

troubles. So, father, I hang in the bend of your arm, look in your face,

and now hear me speak. In my own country I heard there were men

appointed to talk to us. I would not speak there; I chose to come here

and speak in this beloved house. I can boast and say, and tell the

truth, that none of my forefathers, nor any Choctaws, ever drew bows

against the United States. They have always been friendly. We have held

the hands of the United States so long that our nails have grown to be

like birds’ claws, and there is no danger of their slipping out. My

nation has always listened to the white people. They have given away

their country until it is very small. I repeat the same about the land

east of the Tombigbee. I came here, when a young man, to see my father,

President Jefferson. He told me if ever we got into trouble we must run

and tell him. I am come. This is a friendly talk. It is like a man who

meets another and says, ‘How you do?’ Others will talk further.”

One of the objects of this delegation was to sell certain lands which

they owned on the Red River. After Pushmatahaw had described them, in

the most glowing terms imaginable, as a country where the valleys were

filled with black earth, and the waters were very pure, the Secretary of

War said to him—

“Good chief, you are contradicting yourself. When you wanted to buy

these very lands in 1820, you told General Jackson they were all rocks

and hills, and that the waters were only fit to overflow the crops, put

out fires, and float canoes. What is the meaning of the great change?”

“I can only say, good father,” was the reply, “that I am imitating the

white man. In 1820 we wanted to _buy_; now we are anxious to _sell_.”

Another speech that Pushmatahaw delivered in Washington was remarkable

from the fact that it expressed the opinion of a Stoic of the woods,

concerning one of the leading men of the time, General La Fayette, who

was then in the metropolis. The Choctaws called upon him in a body, and

after several of them had spoken, Pushmatahaw rose and said—

“Nearly fifty snows have melted since you drew the sword as a companion

of Washington. With him you fought the enemies of America. You mingled

your blood with that of the enemy, and proved yourself a warrior. After

you finished that war you returned to your own country, and now you have

come back to revisit a land where you are honoured by a happy and

prosperous people. You see everywhere the children of those by whose

side you went to battle, crowding around you, and shaking your hand, as

the hand of a father. We have heard these things told in our distant

villages, and our hearts longed to see you. We have come; we have taken

you by the hand, and are satisfied. This is the first time we ever saw

you; it will probably be the last. We have no more to say. The earth

will part us for ever.”

Shortly after this interview, the symptoms of the old Choctaw’s sickness

became alarming; and, when told that he might die, he spoke of the event

with the utmost coolness. His uppermost thought seemed to be that the

capital of the nation was an appropriate place to die in, and his

leading desire that he might be buried with military honours, and that

big guns might be fired over his grave. Toward the last he called his

companions around him, and gave them particular directions as to his

arms and ornaments; for he said he wanted to die like a man, and his

dying words to them were as follows:—

“I am about to die; but you will return to our country. As you go along

the paths you will see the flowers, and hear the birds sing; but

Pushmatahaw will see and hear them no more. When you reach home they

will ask you, ‘Where is Pushmatahaw?’ and you will say to them, ‘He is

no more,’ They will hear your words, as they do the fall of the great

oak in the stillness of the midnight woods.”

And then the Stoic died. The Government had him buried, with suitable

honours, in the Congressional Cemetery. A procession, more than a mile

long, followed his remains along Pennsylvania Avenue; minute guns were

fired from Capitol Hill, and a “big gun” over the grave of the chief.

Among those who attended his funeral was Andrew Jackson, who frequently

expressed the opinion that Pushmatahaw was the greatest and the bravest

Indian he had ever known.

A number of years after his death, John Randolph pronounced upon him, in

the United States Senate, the following eulogy:—

“In a late visit to the public graveyard, my attention was arrested by

the simple monument of the Choctaw chief, Pushmatahaw. He was, as I have

been told by those who knew him, one of Nature’s nobility, a man who

would have adorned any society. He lies by the side of our statesmen and

high magistrates in the region—for there is one such—where the red man

and the white man are on a level. On the sides of the plain shaft which

marks his place of burial, I read these words: ‘Pushmatahaw, a Choctaw

chief, lies here.’ This monument to his memory was erected by his

brother chiefs, who were associated with him in a delegation from their

nation, in the year 1824, to the Government of the United States. He was

wise in counsel, eloquent in an extraordinary degree, and, on all

occasions and under all circumstances, the white man’s friend. He died

at Washington, on the 24th of December 1824, of the croup, in the

sixtieth year of his age.”

             THE POTOMAC FISHERMAN

            AN AUTOBIOGRAPHIC SKETCH.

I am now an old man, and have been the chief fisherman in this locality

for thirty-five years. I first saw the light in this region, and here I

expect to die. Time is beginning to tell on my storm-exposed bones, but

as I have raised around me a large family of good boys and girls, I

shall be quite willing to go away when my Maker calls. Such swarms of

fish—of rock-fish and shad, of herring, catfish, and sturgeon—as I

have caught in the old Potomac, and such quantities of ducks, rabbits,

and partridges as I have killed in this valley during the winters, it

would be hard to estimate. And oh! how many and what awful freshets have

I witnessed! I have worked hard, tried to do my duty, and, upon the

whole, have led a happy life. I can remember when the first chain bridge

was thrown across the river, just below the “Big Eddy;” that bridge and

all its successors I have seen carried away. Little did I think in those

old days that I should ever hear the guns of civil war on this spot, and

see thousands upon thousands of soldiers marching from one side of the

river to shoot down in cold blood their brothers on the other side. But

the rebellion is over now, and I am very glad and thankful. The fighting

is at an end, and all the troops have long since gone to their various

homes, excepting those who are sleeping on the hills of Arlington. It

used to be a real pleasure to me to see these poor fellows enjoying

themselves when in camp at the Little Falls, and to hear the music of

their regimental bands. That music was very grand, I know, and the blast

of the bugle stirred one’s blood; but to my ear, after all, nothing

sounded so sweetly as did the singing of the birds, the roar of the

river, and the mellow horns of the canal boatmen, in the good old times,

when you might have travelled many miles up this valley in the pleasant

autumn without meeting a single man. Peace and real comfort filled the

land in those days, and such sounds as the railroad whistle and the

beating of the drum were unknown.

The drum! That makes me think of the drummer boy who perished in these

waters more than a hundred years ago. It is an old tradition, and a sad

one too; and now that my steps are getting feeble and slow, I cannot

well drive it from my mind, as I could in former years. It was in the

time of one of the Indian wars, and a band of British infantry, on their

way from the Old Dominion to the regions of the great lakes, chanced to

cross the Potomac at this point. They crossed in a bateau, and although

the first of them stepped into the boat, to the music of the drum,

before the last of them were ferried over, an accident occurred, and the

favourite of the band, the drummer boy, with his drum about his neck,

was drowned, and for ever disappeared from human sight. The soldiers had

no more music, and their march through the interminable woods was

sorrowful indeed. They could not forget their happy little comrade, the

drummer boy; and since that time the valley of the Potomac has ever and

anon resounded with the music of the phantom drum. Old men tell me that

it was often heard in revolutionary times, and I know that I have heard

something like it in my own—yes, more than a hundred times. It was

often heard at midnight in the pauses of a thunderstorm, now mingling,

with the roar of waters in a spring flood, and again stealing softly

through the quiet summer or autumnal atmosphere. But what was very

strange, whenever that phantom drum was heard, the river was sure to

bring up from its depths the body of some man who had been drowned. It

was thought by many that the man who first heard the pealing of this

strange sound was sure to lose his life by drowning before the coming

morrow. I am not superstitious, but this may be something more than

fancy. I very well know that when I fell from a high rock into the upper

pool, or “spout,” of the Little Falls, I heard a mysterious sound, and

thought of the phantom drum. So, also, when once a floating tree upset

my boat, and plunged me into the hell of waters below the Falls. That

the ghost of the drowned drummer once haunted this place was believed by

many of the inhabitants of this part of Virginia, which has been long

known as Cooney; and there is a man still living who will take his oath

that the phantom once, on a moonlight night, climbed into his boat while

he was fishing, and that he sat there for a long time beating the air as

if performing a tattoo or reveille. The drumming of the spirit is said

to have been heard most frequently before the building of the Chesapeake

and Ohio Canal, when the river was navigated by boats which were taken

around the two Falls of the Potomac by short canals, built under the

direction of George Washington; and we all know that the number of

people drowned in the Potomac was greater then than it has been in later

years, except during the Rebellion. Under contending flags, alas!

drowned men and the discordant drum have lately been of far too frequent

occurrence in the valley of the Potomac. There was a time when these

fancies made me unhappy, but now they do not trouble me. I am growing

old, and though I might prefer to have my body laid under the green sod,

I should not be surprised, nor care, at any time to hear the wild music

of the phantom drum.

Other sounds besides that of the drum were heard in this valley in the

olden times. In the hollow, on the Virginia side, just below the Falls,

there was, until recent years, a great building with wheels. First it

was a flour-mill, then a woollen factory, afterwards a distillery, and

lastly a paper-mill. When the rebellion commenced, the walls of the

paper-mill were standing, but the troops made a target of them for their

cannon, and now you can hardly recognise the spot upon which they stood.

At this point, too, in former years there was a store, and of course a

tavern, and it was for many years the regular loafing-place for the

people of Cooney. Here a lot of the wild Cooneys could always be found,

cutting all kind of capers, ruining themselves and starving their

families by drink; and one of their pastimes, on Sunday afternoons, was

to fight with each other, like cats and dogs, simply for the wager of a

drink of rum or whisky. But those wretched people are all gone away for

ever. In the days which I now speak of, small cargoes of flour were

brought down the Potomac in keel-boats, and once in a while a man would

appear who preferred to run the Falls with his boat, instead of going

around by the canal. At the Great Falls above, this could never be done,

but here the feat was sometimes performed. Of one of these daring men,

named Cameron, it is said that he was thrown from his boat on the top of

the Spouting Rock, or middle landing, where he was compelled to remain

in a continuous rain for three days. During that time he could only be

fed by catching loaves of bread or pieces of meat which were thrown to

him from the southern shore. He was finally rescued by means of a boat

which was drawn up the rapid by long ropes from either side of the

river; and on the next day after his escape the water had risen at least

twenty feet above the top of Spouting Rock, and the ordinary width of

the river, of perhaps two hundred feet, was increased until the flood

was half a mile wide, and washed the high hills of the Maryland shore.

But nothing so convinces me of my declining years as the changes which

have taken place in my family, and among my acquaintances and friends.

The little boy who twenty-five years ago brought me my meals to the

riverside while dipping for shad, fishing for rock-fish, or grappling

for sturgeon, is now a great strong man, and the eldest of my ten

children. Of my old friends, many of them have wandered to unknown

parts, and many of them are dead. They came here oftentimes bleached by

the confinement of city life, and after spending a day with me at the

Falls, drinking in the pure air and enjoying the wild scenery and good

sport, they always went away happier and in better health than when they

came. Some of them had roamed much over the world, and it did me good to

hear them talk about the wonders they had seen. Among my departed

friends and patrons were some who were great men, or had names that were

known throughout the land.

Foremost among these was Daniel Webster. When Secretary of State, he

used to come here, always early in the morning, and accompanied by his

private secretary. He liked the fresh morning air as much as any man I

ever saw, and when he talked to me freely about fish and fishing, I

could believe that he had been in the business all his life. He was

always liberal, and where other men would give me one dollar for a

morning’s sport, he would give me ten. And for an old man, as he then

was, he was a good fisherman. I remember well the day that he caught his

biggest rock-fish. I had taken him in one of my boats to the “catting

rock,” and as he swung across the roaring waters, the great man clapped

his hand like a little child. The fish weighed sixteen pounds, and gave

him much trouble, and when I gaffed the prize, and we knew it was safe,

he dropped his rod in the bottom of the boat, jumped to his feet, and

gave a yell—a regular Indian yell—which might have been heard in

Georgetown. He came often, was always pleasant in his ways, generally on

the ground as early as five o’clock, and once he gave me as a reason for

winding up the sport at nine o’clock, that he was President Fillmore’s

clerk, and was obliged to be at the Department before noon. But his

fishing days are long since ended; and I have thought that if he had

lived at the time, we might have been spared the great Rebellion.

Another glorious old man who used to fish with me at the Falls was

General George Gibson. In his love of the sport he was ahead of many

other men, and I am told that in the army he was universally beloved. He

used light tackle, fancy hooks, and flies that were made in Europe, and

was always as kind and gentle as any man could be. He threw the fly with

great dexterity, and usually preferred to fish from the rocks with the

fly, and in the afternoon, when there was a shadow on the stream. He was

very fond of talking about old times, and there was no end to his

stories about the fish he had caught in every part of the land. His last

visit to the Falls was made a short time before his death, and I

remember well that he was so infirm and feeble from old age, that his

body-servant and myself were obliged to support him on his feet as he

threw the fly. He was lucky to the last; but he, too, is now sleeping in

the grave.

Governor George M. Bibb was another of my old friends. That man was

positively almost mad on the subject of fishing. He always fished with

bait in a boat, and was as patient as the day is long. He was

kind-hearted, genial, generous to a fault, a great talker, and had so

many harmless eccentricities, that he was wont to keep his fishing

companions in a continual roar of laughter. After an unlucky day, in his

perverseness he would sometimes spend the greater part of the night upon

the river, as if determined to turn the tide of luck in his favour. He

fished with me in those days when he was Secretary of the Treasury, and

also in those more unfortunate days when, for a bare support, he held a

subordinate position in the same department building, though paid by the

Attorney-General. Peace to the memory of Governor Bibb!

Many amusing stories are related of him, and I give you one of them. One

day, early in the morning, he planted himself on a certain wharf for a

quiet day of sporting. At noon a friend passed by and asked him about

his luck. “I hain’t had a bite,” replied the Governor; “the fish are

scarce.” At sundown another friend passed by, and seeing a handsome

yellow frog crouching by the side of the Governor, and evidently

enjoying the scenery, suddenly exclaimed, “What’s that?” “That,” replied

the Governor, with a look of horror, “is my bait, and the d—d thing has

been squatting there, I suppose, ever since nine o’clock this morning.”

Of my distinguished friends, now living, I may mention with pride and

pleasure the late British minister, John F. Crampton. He too was very

fond of sport, and ever proved himself to be a true and kind gentleman.

When he came here, he never allowed himself to go away disappointed, for

if the fish did not bite, he would take out his sketch-book and go to

work upon a picture of the Falls or of some curious rock. His fishing

companion invariably was the same good friend of mine who fished with

Daniel Webster, and who has now fished with me at the Little Falls for

twenty-four years; and whose eyes I yesterday saw glisten with delight

as he caught a ten-pound rock-fish.

Among those who have visited the Little Falls from curiosity, I must

mention the distinguished authoress, Frederika Bremer. Never can I

forget the excitement of the little lady. She clambered over the rocks,

plucking more flowers and plants than she could carry without

assistance; she ran about like a child, exclaiming at the grand bluffs

and the emerald water, and she questioned me as to my manner of life

until I became bewildered. I enjoyed her visit, however, and she was

happy, but I have thought that it was not exactly kind in her to speak

of me, in her book on America, as a wild giant of the wilderness.[2] On

that occasion she was accompanied by Doratha L. Dix, that other lady

who, as I am told, has won a great name for her unselfish life in the

cause of Christian philanthropy.

[2] The exact language she used, and which I copy from her book, is as

follows:—“I went one day with a handsome, young, new-married pair, and

Miss Dix, to the Little Falls on the Potomac, in a wild and picturesque

district. There dwells here, in great solitude, a kind of savage, with

seven fingers on each hand, and seven toes on each foot. He is a giant

in his bodily proportions, and lives here on fish; he is said to be

inoffensive when he is left at peace, but dangerous if excited. I can

believe it. He looked to me like one of those Startodder natures, half

human and half enchanter, which the old Scandinavian ages produced at

the wild falls of Trollhätta, and which the wildernesses of America seem

to produce still.”

         *    *    *    *    *

_Note._—Good and honest Joseph Payne, the hero of this paper, had two

sons who were killed by accident, one by his gun, and the other while

working in a quarry; and he himself died at the Little Falls in January

1877, since which time, strange as it may seem, there has been but

little sport on the Potomac.

            PHASES OF AMERICAN LIFE.

Having been somewhat of a wanderer throughout the length and breadth of

the United States, we propose to pass in review, as we have studied

them, the leading or more prominent classes which compose the American

nation of the present time. Subjects of this character, when treated in

a general manner, are well calculated to give the untravelled reader

comprehensive ideas of our huge Republic, and we cannot but hope that we

shall be able to submit a few particulars possessing interest for the

multitude.

Bowing our respects to the spirit of antiquity, we begin with the red

race, or native Indians. From the fact that these people are gradually

withering away before the march of civilisation, our chief interest in

them centres in their extent and geographical location. According to the

most authentic data, the number of Indians who, in this the year 1868,

theoretically recognise the President as their Great Father, is about

three hundred thousand. Of these, the Creeks, Cherokees, Choctaws, and

Chickasaws, who occupy what is called the Creek country, on the

headwaters of the Arkansas, number some fifty-four thousand; and,

excepting four thousand of the Six Nations in New York, one thousand

Cherokees in North Carolina, six hundred Penobscots in Maine, and

perhaps forty-one thousand of various tribes still holding reservations

on the Great Lakes and the Upper Mississippi and Missouri rivers, they

are the only tribes that have made any satisfactory advances in

acquiring the arts and comforts of civilisation. It would thus appear

that the wild Indians who live entirely by the chase, and who inhabit

our territories, excluding Alaska, number two hundred thousand souls.

Although nominally obedient to the laws of the United States, these

hunting tribes are in reality as free to roam as if there were no

central government. But with those who are partially civilised the case

is quite different. In 1866 their wealth in individual property was

estimated at nearly three millions and three hundred thousand dollars,

while they supported sixty-four schools, sixty-one missionaries, and

farmed about seventy thousand acres of land; while the present

liabilities of the General Government to all the Indian tribes, under

treaty stipulations, amount to seven millions and two hundred thousand

dollars. The different names by which these tribes are known number no

less than one hundred and fifty, and their geographical condition is

co-extensive with the area of our territorial possessions.

On leaving the hunting-grounds of the red men for the haunts of

civilisation, our first stopping-place is at the cabin of a frontier

farmer.

But here, before entering, let us take a glance at the past, when the

condition of affairs was somewhat different from what it is at the

present time. In the first settling of the west, if a man, after

entering eighty acres of land, had only a single horse, he was

considered as one prepared to take a fair start in life. In a single

day, with the assistance of a few neighbours, he would erect a log cabin

from sixteen to twenty feet in size, and without a nail or pane of

glass, and on the following day move into the new house with his wife

and such traps as she might possess. Soon as he could obtain a few

sheep, his wife made all their winter clothing, and out of an acre of

flax all their summer apparel. When caught in bed by the rising sun he

was talked about as a lazy fellow. To get a little cash to pay his taxes

and purchase a bit of coffee and sugar once a year at the distant

“store,” he would hire himself out, for a few days, to some more

prosperous emigrant at the rate of forty cents for twelve hours of hard

work; but when his hogs and cattle began to multiply, this playing the

part of a hireling ceased to be necessary. In those days young men were

appreciated by the number of rails they could split and the quantity of

ground they could clear in a month; and when the buxom lasses went to

the house of some distant neighbour on Sunday, where there was to be

preaching, they would, on approaching the house, doff their brogans and

put on their nice calf-skin shoes, which had come all the way from New

York or Boston.

The frontier life of to-day is still rude, but there has been great

improvement. Though born and bred in a settled country, the spirit of

enterprise has tempted the man of to-day to purchase a few hundred acres

of land at the low Government price, which he is clearing away as

rapidly as possible, and in the midst of which he has fixed his home. It

is still built of logs, small, and poorly furnished, and, but for the

smoke issuing from its rustic chimney, could hardly be distinguished

from the stable or barn, where he shelters one or two horses, a yoke of

oxen, and two or three cows. Every girdled tree in the neighbouring

field has quivered under the blows of his sharp axe; the stump fence

which surrounds his incipient meadow or cornfield has been engineered

out of the black earth by his patience and skill; and the fallow-fires,

which fill the air with smoke and at night give the skies a lurid glow,

are ignited and kept burning by his hand. Hard work and rough fare are

the lot of this poor yeoman; but his mission as a man demands our

highest respect. He has a growing family about him, and in their welfare

are centred all his hopes. Though far removed from schools, and

churches, and the refinements of life, he plods on, year after year,

thankful that his boys are approaching man’s estate, and cheered with

the fair but perhaps remote prospect that, like many of his predecessors

in a new country, he will yet acquire a fortune and spend his old age in

a large _frame house_ and in peace. Five, ten, or it may be fifteen

miles from his cabin is another built on the same model, and whose owner

is a counterpart of himself. Farther on, still another log cabin comes

in view, and so on do they continue to appear until you have compassed

the entire frontiers of civilisation. Excepting the fond anticipations

which are cherished by this great brotherhood of stalwart pioneers, it

would seem as if to them the enjoyments of life were few and far

between; and yet, with good health, constant exercise, pure air, an

occasional hunt for the deer, the wild turkey, the wolf, or the bear,

and an abundance of plain but wholesome food, and with their happy

families about them, it would hardly be reasonable for them to complain.

The ancestors of these very men were among the first to gather around

the flag during the Revolutionary war; and they themselves, with their

brothers and sons, flocked by thousands to its rescue during the Great

Rebellion. As one of our poets has written, they are the “Spirit of our

land, personified,” and in history they will be long remembered with

honour and gratitude for what they are doing in making clear the pathway

of empire. But this allusion to log-cabin life impels us to a remark

upon the log-cabins themselves. Our recollections of these homes in the

wilderness are so numerous and so agreeable, that we would fain

celebrate them in a song. We have slept in them on the borders of New

Brunswick, Canada, and the Hudson Bay territories; have found them

occupied by some of the most worthy men we ever knew; and around the

magnificent fireplaces, which they all possess, with cords of wood

blazing away in unappreciated affluence, we have heard stories and

legends without number about the wild life and adventures of the

pioneers. And the part which these cabins perform in beautifying the

scenery of the frontiers is important, and not to be forgotten by those

who have seen them in their picturesque localities; here, capping the

summit of a gentle hill and overlooking a beautiful lake, and there,

nestled in the shadow of a primeval forest; at one time resting on a

pleasant mead, washed by the waters of a sweetly-singing river, and at

another commanding a broad prairie; in winter almost hidden from view by

the deep snow, and in summer enveloped in festoons of vines and flowers;

and at all times, in every quarter of the land, forming a simple but

cosy home for those who have not been maddened by the follies of

artificial life.

Under the head of Farm-life, we comprehend in this paper the great mass

of our population who live by tilling the soil and are established as

husbandmen, in all the Northern and Western States of the Union. By

virtue of their numbers and wealth they are that particular class of the

American people who constitute the vital element of our prosperity. The

figures are indubitable; before the commencement of the late Rebellion

they cultivated not less than one million and two hundred and sixty-six

thousand farms, and not far from ninety millions of acres of land. Even

in circumscribed New England, we ourselves have been driven over a

grazing farm (by the late Hon. Ezra Meech, of Vermont), where three

thousand sheep and a thousand cattle were cropping their morning repast;

and we have but to recall the names of the Illinois farmers, Straum and

Funk, to have our belief again staggered by their exploits in sending

countless herds of cattle to market, and in cultivating corn and wheat

fields that seem to have been bounded only by the sky. To be a little

more particular, we might state that the farm of Isaak Funk contained

nearly forty thousand acres, with one pasture field of eight thousand

acres; and in 1862 he sent cattle to New York valued at $70,000, while

his home stock was estimated at $1,000,000. His chief production was

corn, all of which was consumed on his own farm, while his style of

living was noted for its simplicity. In 1867, the most extensive farmer

in Illinois, or in the whole country, was Eugene Haywood, who cultivated

fifty thousand acres. The salient features of the farm life under

consideration are as follows: In nineteen cases out of twenty the

proprietor joins his hired men in the work to be done, whether it be in

holding the plough and casting the seed, or in driving the machinery

employed; they all partake alike of the same food, and occupy the same

platform as citizens; free access to schools and churches is enjoyed by

all, without any regard to family or fortune; and the man who is working

to-day as a hired hand, knows full well that if he continues to be true

to himself and his opportunities, he will yet be respected as a

proprietor. The houses which our farmers occupy are comfortable and

home-like; by means of newspapers and books they keep up with the spirit

of the age in matters intellectual; and, though generally disinclined to

participate in the partisan squabbles of the day, they are by no means

indifferent to the welfare of the country, are frequently called upon to

fill local offices, and when they do condescend to occupy seats in

Congress, it is oftentimes their good sense which succeeds in thwarting

the schemes of the demagogues. Indeed, if we had more of our solid

farmers in Congress, and a greater scarcity of third-class lawyers and

trading politicians, the country would not be in an everlasting uproar

about suffrage, and tariffs, and questions of finance.

But if we desire to obtain a complete idea of the yeomanry of our land,

we must take a glance at the plantation life of the Southern States.

Before the Rebellion, the number of plantations under cultivation was

estimated at about seven hundred and sixty-five thousand, and equal to

nearly seventy-five millions of acres. As to the cotton, sugar, wheat,

corn, and livestock which were produced upon them, they can only be

fully appreciated by consulting the publications of the census office.

The stupendous change that has taken place among the Southern people

since the emancipation of the slaves, renders it difficult to describe

their present condition. Before the war, the planter was the owner not

only of broad acres almost without number, but also of from ten to two

thousand menials, whom he fed and clothed for his exclusive profit, and

who, for the most part, did his bidding without a murmur or a thought

beyond the passing hour. He lived at his ease among books and in the

dispensation of a liberal hospitality, leaving all the labour on his

plantation to the direction of an overseer, who spent the most of his

time on horseback, issuing his orders to the working men and women, and

watching the general progress of affairs. According to his wealth the

planter lived in a house or an elegant mansion, while his slaves were

always domiciled in rude but comfortable cabins. But since the

conclusion of the war, a very different condition of things has been

inaugurated in the South. The planter still retains his broad acres, but

slavery has disappeared into thin air. A large proportion of those who

worked for him as slaves may yet remain upon his plantation, but they

are always hired by the month or year, and though free to come and go,

they now find it indispensable to work before they can be fed or

clothed. On many estates indeed, as we happen to know, the changes have

not been so great as one would have imagined, for where the planters

have hitherto been kind-hearted and just in their dealings with the

slaves, they have had but little trouble in retaining their services and

goodwill. Whatever may be the present financial condition of the

Southern planters, it is quite evident that their immediate future as

citizens of the Republic is anything but cheerful, for they know not,

practically speaking, what will be on the morrow; and as to the black

race, in their delight with the idea of freedom, they seem well content

to exchange their Christmas and other holiday fandangos for a pow-wow at

the polls, the term master for that of boss, and a larder well supplied

with “hog, hominy, and molasses,” which were formerly given them without

money, for the same commodities now purchased with their individual

earnings. That there is much destitution and deplorable suffering

throughout the Southern States at the present time cannot be denied, and

if the wisest prophet cannot tell us when peace, prosperity, and

contentment will take the place of the existing chaos, we cannot but

hope that this result will not be long delayed, and that many of our

oldest citizens will yet witness the triumph of well-directed labour and

the true spirit of Christianity from the Potomac to the Rio Grande.

In taking a survey of what we may call the foreign phase of American

life, we naturally recur to the figures of the census of 1860. The first

fact which rivets our attention is this:—That while the slave and free

coloured population of the country amounted to 4,441,830, the

foreign-born numbered 4,136,175, leaving the native-born at 18,911,556,

the three classes forming the grand total of 27,489,561, and which,

according to the latest estimates, has reached the number of 33,000,000.

The various countries which have volunteered, through their people, to

join hands with the Anglo-Saxon race in building up the leading Republic

of the world, and the extent of their co-operation, may be stated as

follows:—Ireland, 1,611,304; German States, 1,301,136; England,

431,692; British America, 249,970; France, 109,870; Scotland, 108,518;

Norway, 43,995; Switzerland, 53,327; China, 35,565; Mexico, 27,466;

Sweden, 18,625; Italy, 10,518; Denmark, 9962; Belgium, 9072; Poland,

7298; Spain, 4244; Portugal, 4116; South America, 3263; Asia, 1231; and

Africa, 526, with an unimportant balance from various other regions of

the globe. That the people representing the above nationalities have

become identified to some extent with every part of the Union, need not

be asserted, but the largest number of foreigners reside in the

following States, named in the order of precedence, to wit: New York,

Pennsylvania, Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin, and Massachusetts. Those

engaged in mercantile or mechanical pursuits have generally flocked to

the cities and larger towns, both in the East and West, and the farmers

have settled upon the fertile lands of the Western States;—and while

the former live and labour, very much as they did in their native lands,

the latter have, to a great extent, adopted the implements of the

American farmers, and are consequently becoming more completely

amalgamated with the native race in the rural customs.

Another phase of industrial life in which the universal public feel an

interest is that of mining, and we confess that a careful study of the

subject has upset many of our former notions. The number of men engaged

in all kinds of mining throughout the country is 147,750, but those

engaged in the five leading products is 93,522; of these, 44,316 are

gold and silver hunters, 36,486 are engaged in digging out coal, 5153

engaged in copper mines, 3206 in the iron mines, and 361 in the lead

mines; while California gives us nearly all the gold we receive, and

Nevada all the silver, Pennsylvania takes the lead in coal and iron, and

Michigan has it all her own way in the copper line. Of the total number

of miners in the country, more than one-half of them are said to be

foreigners by birth, the Irish and English predominating in

Pennsylvania, and the Chinese in California; and as they are for the

most part cosmopolites or wanderers over the face of the earth, we

cannot chronicle the fact that their enjoyment of the good things of

life is anything to be especially envied. And yet the recent mineral

developments in our vast territories are already greatly increasing the

number of miners in the country.

And here, as we have, without intending it, got ourselves involved in a

maze of figures, we propose to work out of it, by giving the numbers in

regard to other phases of American life, where the population exceeds

twenty thousand, viz.: Of apprentices there are 55,326; blacksmiths,

112,357; boatmen, 23,816; butchers, 30,103; cabinetmakers, 29,223;

carpenters, 242,958; carters, 21,640; engineers, 27,437; clergymen,

37,529; clerks, 184,485; coopers, 43,624; factory hands, 87,289; farmers

and farm-labourers, 3,219,574; fishermen, 21,905; gardeners and

nurserymen, 21,323; grocers, 40,070; innkeepers, 25,818; lawyers,

33,193; machinists, 43,824; mantua-makers, 35,165; mariners, 67,360;

masons, 48,925; mechanics, 23,492; merchants, 123,378; millers, 37,281;

milliners, 25,772; public civil officers, 24,693; painters, 51,695;

physicians, 54,543; planters, 85,561; printers, 23,106; railroad men,

36,567; seamstresses, 90,198; shoemakers, 164,608; students, 40,993;

tailors and tailoresses, 101,868; teachers, 110,469; teamsters, 34,824;

tobacconists, 21,413; weavers, 36,178; and wheel-wrights, 32,693. Such

was the condition of affairs just before the late Rebellion: and,

without being too precise, it is quite certain that the people who

entered the two armies from every department of active life, and

perished during the war, have already been more than replaced by the

immigration from foreign countries. The social condition and manner of

life of the great multitudes above mentioned are so familiar, that it is

not necessary to descant upon them; and whatever may be their various

peculiarities, it is a source of gratification to every lover of

humanity to know that they are all free, proud of their American

citizenship, and as truly happy as any other nation upon earth.

There are two varieties of American life which, because of their

poetical associations, we must not fail to specify. The first is that

led by the dwellers along the sea-coasts of New England. Their small

white cottages look down upon the Atlantic from every headland, lie

nestled among all the rocky bluffs, and stand exposed to the glare of

the sky on all the sandy reaches from the Hudson river to the St. Croix.

Obtaining their living chiefly from the sea, they cultivate just enough

land to give them the vegetables they need; and while the men toss about

upon the waters in their boats and vessels, the women remain at home,

busy with their sewing-machines, while the children flock off in various

directions to the district schools. Though living remote from the larger

towns and the great highways of travel, these people have perpetually

the companionship of the sea and the sky, and on that score are only to

be envied. It is along these coasts, moreover, that we find that hardy

race of mariners, who, when their country calls, fly to the rescue of

the flag, and do their best to protect the nation’s renown. But for

unadulterated peace, we must resort to the small and out-of-the-way

villages of our great land. To the man who is not wildly mad on the

subject of politics and money, they are among the most delightful spots

to be found by the tourist, or the lover of a quiet country life. The

only trouble is, that under the trampling of the fiery locomotive, they

are daily disappearing from the face of the earth. A few of them are yet

to be found in New England, on Long Island, and in other parts of New

York, where the village green may still be seen, surrounded with

graceful elms and rustic homes and meeting-houses, and the old-fashioned

tavern, where the population is composed of old men and old

women—fathers and mothers in Israel—whose children have grown up and

married and settled in far-off places of excitement and business and

turmoil. But alas! The spirit of mammon is riding rampant over the whole

land, and it will not be long before a rural American village, cousin to

those which have been so charmingly described by Mary Mitford, will only

be mentioned by the historical writer or antiquarian.

And now for a few reflections on the leading representative cities of

the Republic, beginning with Boston. Its Revolutionary history we always

recall with pride; so also do we remember its golden age of commerce;

and as the patron of brilliant men in statesmanship and literature, its

fame will be perennial. Springing as it did from the loins of

Puritanism, it has been true to its lineage, and successful in

impressing its characteristics upon the whole of New England, including

the cities of Worcester, Providence, Hartford, and New Haven. It is a

pleasant place to arrive at, and by a lively stranger may be fully

“_done_” in about two days, when, unless he happen to have had a taste

of its cultivated society, he will be quite willing to continue the

journey of life. On taking his seat in the railway train, he will begin

to ponder upon what he has seen and heard, and will find the following

ideas impressed upon his mind, viz.: That the charitable and learned

institutions of Boston are a credit to its citizens; that nature has

been kind to it, and made it a city of the sea; that its libraries,

book-stores, and newspapers, are highly respectable; that the State

House and Bunker Hill will never be forgotten; that the Common is an

indispensable luxury in such a jammed-up city; that Choate and Webster,

the Adamses and Hancock, were old fogies, and not to be mentioned with

the John Browns of the present time; that the sculpture-rooms of the

Athenæum are in keeping with the prevailing taste in art, very

classical, but decidedly feeble; that, if _Belshazzar’s Feast_ was the

best thing Allston could produce after twenty years’ labour, he was a

most diabolical painter, which is not our opinion; that its streets are

clean; houses comfortable; women intelligent and _cute_; business men

solid, but rather slow; hack-drivers respectable; and that it contains a

great many people, snobs, in early manhood, who, if they dared to be so

disloyal, would be glad to declare themselves a colony of England. In

this connection we must of course allude to New York, but the place is

so huge, and is so complete an epitome of the world at large, that it

cannot be characterised in a single paragraph. I knew the place, as a

citizen, for many years, and nothing less than a volume would suffice

for a just account of its Dutch aristocracy, wonderful commercial

enterprise, the magnificence of its leading men, its artistic, literary,

and scientific institutions, and of all those qualities which it has

implanted upon its daughter cities,—Buffalo, Detroit, and Chicago. It

took a highly honourable part in the great events of our earlier

history, and as the commercial metropolis of our country, will long

continue to compare favourably with the leading cities of the Old World.

Next comes Philadelphia, the demure city of Friends! It ranks next to

New York in population, but in its business traffic is excelled by

Boston. Its people are not ambitious of display, excepting in the Quaker

line, but they are to be depended upon; though not unmindful of their

creditable position in history, they are not given to foolish boasting;

they read good books and enjoy the fine arts; they dress in better taste

than their intimate friends of Gotham; and as a city of quiet and

pleasant homes, we suppose that Philadelphia is without a superior

anywhere. If not pre-eminently influential as a commercial city, it has

certainly accomplished much in making Pittsburgh what it is, and has

borne its part with New England in making Cincinnati the Queen city of

the west. And what of Baltimore! It has a brilliant reputation, and yet,

from the day that the Catholics gave it a name, down to the present

hour, it seems to have been engaged in a perpetual struggle with an

opposing destiny; now thwarted by the rivalry of Philadelphia, anon made

the victim of mob violence, and capping the climax of its misfortunes by

spilling some of the first blood of the Rebellion. While ever famous for

its brave men and beautiful women, accomplished scholars and citizens of

rare culture and refinement, it has not succeeded in keeping pace with

that spirit of enterprise which seems to have actuated the American

people. Passing further south along the Atlantic coast we come to the

cavalier city of Charleston. The sunshine of a pure and noble patriotism

rests upon its early history; there was a time when it received the

willing tribute of many charming towns, and commanded the respect of the

entire nation; but it had an insane passion for fire and the sword, and

it now lies prostrate in ashes and dust, from which, in its old

character, it can never arise. To expatiate upon the phases of life now

prevailing there, would hardly be amusing or profitable. In this summary

of the mother cities of the nation, I must not forget New Orleans. As

the guardian of the matchless Mississippi it stands alone, and deserves

its world-wide fame. From time immemorial it has been in a constant

struggle either with war or pestilence; but so great have been its

advantages as a shipping depôt, it has ever maintained a high character,

and is destined, undoubtedly, in spite of its recent misfortunes, to

attain a position of still greater magnitude in the commercial world. It

was here that the French race made their most successful stand within

the limits of the United States, and where the gaiety of the Creole

population has held perpetual sway over the city. Whatever may be the

ultimate fate and character of New Orleans and its ally, or offspring,

St. Louis, we can never ignore their earlier and highly romantic

history. While the parent cities, with their celebrated colonies already

mentioned, form a noble array, the children possessing all the

characteristics of their parents, it must not be supposed that we are

unmindful of the associations which cluster around such places as Mobile

and Savannah, Raleigh, Richmond, Nashville, and Louisville, Indianapolis

and Milwaukee, Rochester, Albany, Portland, Newark, and a host of other

towns in the west and north, each one of which, as we know by personal

observation, has its peculiar character and interesting phases of social

life. There is one other city that we must mention, however, with more

minuteness, and that is the National Metropolis. With this spot local

pride has but little to do, for it is the petted child of the whole

nation, and some might say, the spoiled child also. There are yet a few

of the old landmarks of society remaining, and while it would afford us

pleasure to give an account of the good times when statesmen instead of

demagogues, and men of culture and position instead of adventurers, gave

tone to society here, we think it best to describe the phases of life

which have latterly prevailed, and now prevail, in Washington. And first

as to the resident population. They are a people without Government, or

rather, who are denied the privilege of being heard by a representative

or delegate in Congress. It cannot be said, indeed, that they have no

legislators to look after their interests—the trouble is, they have too

many. Since 1800 they have had several thousand, “all, all honourable

men.” As the residents of Washington do not possess any political

rights, it might be supposed that they feel no special interest in the

success of parties, and yet more bitter partisans are not to be found

anywhere in the north or south. And there is something equally

contradictory also in their estimation of public characters. For the

reason that they have many opportunities to see our really great public

men, they are seldom awed by such spectacles, and of course estimate the

“ordinary run” of Congressmen and other public servants at their real

value; at the same time, if they happen to find it desirable to obtain

any favours from their legislative or executive rulers, they bend the

knee quite as humbly as their brethren from the rural districts.

Politically speaking, their condition is not to be envied. But is there

any good reason why they should be the victims to every species of

tyranny, to which the citizens of the States and Territories are not

subjected, and that they should be pointed at as the men who have no

vote, and are only Washingtonians? It is true that the people who reside

in our Territories have no voice in electing the President, but they all

live in the hope of soon enjoying that privilege; but not so with the

citizens of the metropolis. As individuals, they are not without the

vital principle of life; but they are a soulless corporation of “purest

ray serene.”

From the necessarily meek but generally solid proprietors of the soil of

Washington, outside of the Government possessions, it is natural that we

should turn to their chief tenants, the Executive dignitaries and the

Justices of the Supreme Court. As the tenure of office of the former

seldom exceeds four years, they have, in spite of themselves, a

particularly lively time of it, during their whole term, spending their

days in dealing out patronage, and their nights in giving and attending

receptions; and as their families take the lead in fashion, and all

American citizens, both “coloured and plain,” have an inalienable right

to be fashionable, and as exclusiveness in the President and his

ministers would not be tolerated, there is no end to the so called

enjoyments of high life. If a minister is rich and liberal, he becomes,

for the time being, the biggest man on the carpet, in spite of his

politics; if a poor man, dependent only upon his salary of eight

thousand dollars, the fact of his having to occupy a large house and to

entertain the beloved people, sends him into retirement, when his time

comes, a poorer man than before. From the highest to the lowest in

position, they all have to pay very dear for blowing the whistle of

public life in Washington. With the honourable judges the case is

different. They are in office for life, receive an income of six

thousand dollars, and can afford to do as they please, and they

generally please to live the quiet lives of cultivated gentlemen. They

go into society when the spirit moves them, are not disinclined to

partake of a good private dinner with their friends, a foreign envoy, or

a cabinet minister, and perhaps the greatest of their blessings is, that

they are not compelled to amuse the fashionable circles, nor curry

favour with the multitude. For the man of culture and of quiet habits, a

seat on the Supreme Bench is undoubtedly the most enjoyable position

known to the Constitution.

The next layer of Washington society to which we would allude, is made

up of the heads of bureaus and the officers of the army and navy, the

pay of the former ranging from three to five thousand dollars per annum.

They are the men who more immediately manage the machinery of

Government, and upon whom, to a very great extent, depends the success

of all the public measures enacted by Congress. Though reasonably well

paid, they cannot afford to live in style, and it is to their credit

that their desires do not generally tend that way; in a majority of

instances the civil officers are appointed on their real merits, and

occasionally we find the head of a bureau who has risen to his present

position from that of a subordinate; and as to the regular army and navy

officers, they are in Washington what we find them everywhere, highly

intelligent, prompt in performing duty, proud of the grand old flag, and

fond of having a good time, when wind and tide are favourable. After the

above come the clerks of Washington, or, as they are more elegantly

styled, the employés of the Government. They are more numerous than any

other class, and are in reality the working population of the city.

Among them you will find men from every State of the Union, and from

every clime; men of no particular mark, who have lost fortunes; ripe

scholars, who have been rudely buffeted by the world; men of capacity,

who can teach their superiors in office; rare penmen and commonplace

accountants; and a sisterhood, composed chiefly of respectable widows

and orphans, who have been compelled to seek relief from the pinchings

of poverty, under the wings of the Government. The compensation which

they receive ranges from nine hundred to twenty-five hundred dollars per

annum, and while it is true that many receive more than they really

earn, many of the most faithful and deserving cannot, with their

families, live in any degree of comfort upon what they receive. While

you may, here and there, find an individual who has grown grey in the

service, and is looked upon as an oracle in Government matters, the

great majority are in reality a kind of floating population. All alike

are the creatures, as well as the victims, of political or personal

influence. There is not in Washington a respectable reading-room, nor a

single good library to which they can have access; even the

Congressional library, which belongs to the nation, they can only look

upon as did the cat upon the king. They place their noses upon the

grindstone immediately after bolting an early breakfast, and if they can

take them off before dark, they deem themselves lucky. The sensible men

among them have a contempt for politics, while the foolish make

themselves contemptible by becoming partisans. Like the ravens, they do

indeed manage to obtain their bread, and the one magnificent privilege

which the men enjoy who have not relinquished their citizenship, is to

go home and vote for a governor or a candidate for Congress. While it is

true that a large majority of the clerks in Washington are content to

remain all their days in their present position, it is due to the more

ambitious and enterprising among them to say, that they have aspirations

for a wider and more influential sphere of life. Many instances might be

mentioned where clerks have left the Government service and become

distinguished at the bar and as merchants; and we know of some who are

to-day spending all their leisure time in preparing themselves for the

learned professions, in which they are certain to succeed. These

subordinate positions are well enough, and perhaps desirable for those

who use them as a means to an end, but poor affairs when considered, as

is too often the case, the chief end of man in matters terrestrial.

And now, with a few remarks about the brotherhood known as Congressmen,

we will conclude this screed on the phases of American life. Coming, as

they do, from all parts of the country, and representing every variety

of population, it is quite as impossible to describe them collectively

as it would be to speak of their individual characteristics. Really

great men—far-seeing statesmen and brilliant orators—are few and far

between; and there are more upstarts than there ought to be among the

law-makers of the country; and yet a large majority, we would fain

believe, are like the people whom they represent, sound at heart and in

mind, and truly patriotic. If some of them deliver essays prepared by

competent reporters, and call them speeches, we can only commend them

for their sagacity; when some of them preach economy in public affairs,

and at the same time look to it that nearly all their male kindred are

supported by the Government, we cannot question their exalted integrity;

when we hear some of them periodically quoting Scripture, and

expatiating upon all the virtues, and know that their lives are

profligate, we cannot but place implicit confidence in their

professions; and when we see a man who has been repudiated by his

constituents, begging for a petty office, or turning himself into a

claim-agent in Washington—or perhaps taking up his residence in a State

far distant from his own—his former outflowings of patriotic eloquence

on the floor of Congress become a source of amusement. But the many must

not be judged by the follies and delinquencies of the few; and as the

duties and responsibilities of public men vary with the times in which

they live, it is next to impossible for any one to make a just

comparison between the present and the past. The ratio of good and bad

men has been about the same in all former Congresses; and as we are all

human beings and Americans, it is not likely that there will be any very

material changes in the future. And yet there was much pith in the reply

of the school-girl who, when asked by her teacher how “Congress” was

divided, said, “Civilised, half-civilised, and savage.” The number of

men who have hitherto served their country as senators, representatives,

and delegates, since the adoption of the Constitution, and including the

Fortieth Congress, is between four and five thousand; of these, the

majority have been bred to the law; while the party names which have

hitherto been recognised on the floor of Congress are as follows, viz.:

Federalists and Democrats, Whigs and Locofocos, Freesoilers,

Abolitionists and Fire-eaters, Republicans, Copperheads, Native

Americans, Radicals, and Secessionists, forming in the aggregate a

conglomeration of political ideas quite in keeping with the wild and

free spirit of the Universal Yankee Nation.

             SWORD-FISH FISHING.

It was the smack “Neptune,” of New London, Captain John Blue, and we

were bound after sword-fish. The 10th of July 1864 had arrived, and a

school of these ocean wanderers had been seen some seventy miles off

Block Island. To that region we hastened, spent ten days hunting over

the blue sea, and returned home with twenty-one fish, yielding the

skipper and his two men a net profit of five hundred dollars.

As game fish, the salmon and the striped bass must look to their

laurels; for in these warlike times the sword-fish may chance to

supersede them in gaining the affections of the more daring

sportsmen,—although my own fidelity must never be questioned on that

score. Fifteen years ago this fish was not captured for its edible

qualities; to-day it is popular all along the New England coast as an

article of food, and commands a high price, while in New York it is a

drug, and hardly recognised as fit food for man. A full-grown specimen

commonly measures from ten to twelve feet in length, and weighs from

three to five hundred pounds. When fresh, a choice cut from the belly is

really enjoyable, but when salted for winter use, they are deemed by

their captors as unsurpassed by the blue-fish or mackerel. They

generally swim in schools, near the surface of the water, and from their

habit of leaping high out of the water, seem to be proud of their

graceful appearance. The bony snout or weapon which has given them their

name, is a most formidable affair, and has frequently been known to sink

the smaller boats of the fishermen, and even to have penetrated the

solid hull of a ship. This instrument naturally renders them a terror to

every creature that swims the sea, but it is not known that they

systematically make war upon any other creature than the whale. That

unwieldly monster they frequently assault, and with such ferocity as

often to cover the surrounding waters with blood; and when assisted, as

they sometimes are, by the “thrasher,” a kind of savage shark, they

cause the whale, in his agony, to bellow like a wounded bull. It is not

thought by the old fishermen that these conflicts are the result of

hunger on the part of the sword-fish, but are indulged in merely for

amusement. The attacking party seldom or never gives his foe any

quarter, and in this respect they bear a striking resemblance to the

leaders of our great heartrending civil war. Generally speaking, the

sword-fish makes his first appearance in the blue waters off Montauk,

but as the season advances they pass to the eastward, and are followed

by the fishermen even to the coast of Nova Scotia.

But the manner of capturing the sword-fish is in keeping with his novel

character. The smacks which go after them, of which there are eight or

ten registered in New London, are fitted out for this business

exclusively, and never engage in any other unless compelled to do so by

unforeseen circumstances. At the extreme end of the bowsprit and at the

mast-head of each of these vessels is fixed a kind of corded or iron

chair, in the first of which the man with the harpoon is stationed,

while the second is occupied by the watchman. The harpoon or lily-spear,

as it is called, is attached to a coil of smallish rope, the opposite

extremity of which is fastened to a large keg or barrel, made

water-tight, so as to answer the purpose of a buoy. When the fish seem

to be abundant, some half-dozen of these affairs are rigged for

immediate service. When all things are ready, the vessel is carefully

guided to the spot where the fish are seen, and the moment one of them

is fairly struck by the expert harpooner, the coil of rope and the buoy

are thrown overboard, and the fish enters upon the lofty tumbling and

the fearfully rapid paces which terminate only with his death.

Sometimes, in the course of an hour, five or six fish may be effectually

harpooned, and as many buoys be bobbing up and down the waves of the

sea, causing an excitement among the fishermen which hardly has a

parallel among the craft. In the meantime, perhaps, the guest of the

expedition has had a fish harpooned for his own individual benefit, and

with the line secured to the mast, may be doing all he can to play and

drown him, “standing from under” when the more desperate rushes of the

wounded fish are made. When the fish are dead, they are towed to the

side of the vessel, and by means of pulley and tackle are hauled upon

the deck, and when the vessel again resumes her course, they are cleaned

and packed away in a bed of ice in the hold of the smack, and for a time

the fishermen rest from their labours. The sword-fish is said to abound

in the Brazilian, Northern, and Indian Seas, and in the Mediterranean,

and, according to Strabo, the ancients hunted them with the harpoon as

the moderns; and the superstitious Sicilians, while pursuing this fish,

are wont to sing a wild and incoherent chant which they imagine secures

success.

Thus much concerning the practical part of sword-fish fishing. It is

immensely more interesting than halibut fishing, as that fish is taken

with bait and in deep water; and it is only equalled by that wild and

dangerous sport which was once practised in the waters of South Carolina

by the late William Elliot while hunting the devil-fish. As is the case

with every kind of fishing, the manifold charms associated with the

capture of the sword-fish are what give the sport its chief zest. Not

the least of the attractions is the appetite, born of hard exercise and

bracing air, which makes the coarse fare of the sailor a real luxury.

But when you recall the wayward wanderings of your little vessel far out

on the blue and lonely ocean, the wild and stormy nights, the heavy

fogs, forcing the sea to wear a placid aspect, the thousand and one

wonders of the deep which constantly cross your pathway, the spectral

moonlights, the glorious sunrises, the moan of the sea during the long

leaden twilights, and the romantic stories of the mariners—all these

things, in their reality, make a deep impression upon the mind, and are

ever remembered with pleasure.

One of the favourite haunts of the sword-fish is in the vicinity of

Noman’s Land, and as I have visited this romantic spot, perhaps the

curiosity of some of my readers will be gratified by a brief

description. It is an island which lies directly south of the Gay Head

lighthouse on Martha’s Vineyard, and distant therefrom something less

than ten miles. It is oblong in shape, has a small bay on its western

side, and contains about one hundred acres of land; its soil is good and

well cultivated; it attains an elevation in some places of thirty feet;

and while its shores are generally sandy, there are one or two points

where rocks abound. In approaching it the stranger would naturally

imagine it to be quite populous, but the permanent habitations are only

two, while the western shore is literally lined by small cabins which

are occupied at times by the fishermen, who visit the island in great

numbers, but not to the extent that they did in former years. Indeed,

from time immemorial Noman’s Land has been a kind of stopping-place, or

half-way house, for all the smack fishermen who do business in that

portion of the Atlantic. It was first visited by Gosnold in May 1602,

and was at first called Martha’s Vineyard, which name, however, was soon

transferred to its larger neighbour.

From all that I have been able to learn, its original proprietor was a

woman, whose descendants are now the lords of the manor; but whether the

title is legitimate or rests on the doctrine of squatter-sovereignty, I

cannot tell. In her way this woman is said to have been a decided

original. Forty years ago, when in her prime, she had the chief

management of the island, and nothing of consequence is remembered of

her husband. She habitually wore a beard, shaved her chin and cheeks

occasionally, after the manner of men, was noted for her prowess as a

bass-fisherwoman with the squid, could row and land a boat in the surf

as well as any sailor, and always spoke of the sailors who visited her

home as “her darling boys.” She kept a large flock of sheep upon the

island, from whose wool, with the assistance of several female friends,

they manufactured coarse socks and a kind of Guernsey shirts, for which

she found a ready market among the seafaring men who visited her domain.

She was a good housekeeper and cook, and delectable were the chowders

which she prepared for her guests. She kept a few cows at one time, but

as the island was not happy in the beams of the constellation _Taurus_,

her dairy operations were not of long duration. Where she was born, or

where she had lived before becoming a feminine Juan Fernandez, are facts

involved in mystery even to this day, and she is said to have died

somewhere about the year 1840. By the sailors she was everywhere known,

and is now remembered as “Aunt Nomy,” but her real name was _Noman

Luce_, and from the fact of her proprietorship the island naturally took

its present name.

I have been told that this is the identical island the poet Longfellow

had in his mind when he wrote the admirable poem called “The Wreck of

the Hesperus,” but I have it in my power, on the highest authority, to

dispel this story: his Norman’s Woe is near Cape Ann. Between Gay Head

and Noman’s Land there is a dangerous cluster of sunken rocks, which

might well have been the veritable “Reef of Norman’s woe,” which caused

the destruction of the poet’s ship. But if we cannot identify the first

of American poets with this romantic island, we can certainly record the

fact that Noman Luce firmly believed in the periodical appearance of a

spectral fire-ship, which she was wont to allege she had often seen on

stormy autumn nights from the window of her ocean home.

Though mariners of every grade are wont to spend a day, or a few hours,

upon this island, the men who chiefly resort thither are the cod,

halibut, and sword fishermen. In the deep waters all around, those fish

have their favourite haunts, where they have been captured for at least

half a century; and as to the striped bass fishing, at certain seasons

of the year, the entire shores of Noman’s Land are said to be

marvellously prolific in that highly esteemed fish, which are taken

chiefly with the squid and eel-skin. Ignoring the commonplace facts

connected with Noman’s Land, there is something impressive and romantic

in thinking upon the _life_, so to speak, of this island in the lonely

sea. How must the cold winds of winter sweep over this treeless fragment

of mother earth!

What an appropriate place must this be for the dreadful revelries of the

storm king! And how must the poor forsaken island tremble at times under

the rough trampling of the surf! The great ships which pass and re-pass

across its horizon, going from clime to clime, convey no tidings of the

little isle, but stalwart fishermen without number look upon it as a

kind of home, and old Ocean keeps it for ever in his loving embrace. The

din of party strife, the song of mammon, and the wail of the dying on a

hundred battlefields, coming from the great world of human life, do not

disturb the serenity of the place; and were it not for the ties which

bind us to the continent, and the duties which we owe to society and our

fellow-men, there are few, in a time like the present, who would not be

content to spend their days on this beautiful but lonely island. As was

the case with Landor in the desert, so at Noman’s Land—

         “Man is distant, but God is near.”

               NEWFOUNDLAND.

During one of my piscatorial expeditions to Northern New Brunswick, I

had the pleasure of throwing the fly, for several days, in company with

a highly intelligent gentleman from Newfoundland—a native of that

famous island. When not talking about the splendid salmon we were now

and then capturing, I devoted myself to asking questions, and the

substance of the replies I received, together with a few historical

facts, I propose to embody in this paper.

The original name of Newfoundland was Baccalaos, an Indian word meaning

_cod-fish_. It was discovered by John and Sebastian Cabot in 1497, and

by them named Primavista, or _first-seen land_, and hence its present

Anglicised name. It was first colonised by masters of fishing vessels in

1502; the Portuguese took the lead, and after them came the Biscayans

and French; and in 1583 Sir Humphrey Gilbert took possession of it in

the name of Queen Elizabeth. But the deed thus performed was paid for by

the loss of two ships and nearly two hundred men, among whom was the

Admiral himself, whose dying words, addressed to his sailors, were as

follows: “Courage, lads; we are as near heaven at sea as we are on

land.” The second attempt to plant a colony there was made by Sir George

Calvert, afterwards Lord Baltimore, in 1622; and when he abandoned it

for a more congenial clime, it contained three hundred and fifty

families. It was in 1635 that Charles I. granted the French permission

to cure and dry fish on the shores of Newfoundland, and the British

fishery was first encouraged by all exemption from tax or toll in 1663.

From that year until 1728, when the first Governor was appointed, there

was no such thing as law or order on the island, owing to the constant

animosity existing between the settlers and the merchant adventurers;

and its subsequent history only proves that it was looked upon by

England merely as a nursery for hardy seamen, and its manifold natural

resources have been almost wholly neglected. The first surveys of the

island were made by the noted navigator Captain Cook, since which period

he has always been especially appreciated by the inhabitants. But the

chief interest of Newfoundland lies in its physical aspect. Its average

length may be roughly stated at 350 miles, and its breadth at 200 miles,

although at one point it is nearly 300 miles wide. Its area has been

estimated at about 36,000 square miles. The interior of the island has

been explored only to a limited extent, and many of the roads, so

called, are mere Indian trails or paths worn by the wild animals. It

abounds in rivers and lakes of moderate size, and the surface of the

country is about equally divided between high hills or mountains, and

low level land, some of the former attaining an elevation of 1200 feet,

and pushing themselves now and then boldly into the sea, while the low

country is composed of peat-bogs and marshy barrens, intersected in

every direction by the beaten paths of the caribou deer, or varied with

woods, in which boulder rocks are abundant. Its two leading rivers are

the Exploit and the Humber, the last of which is noted for its fine

scenery, and its two largest lakes are known as Grand and Red Indian.

Various species of the spruce, the fir, and the pine grow everywhere,

but seldom attain a greater height than thirty feet, and are very

slender, while in the more northern portions they are so very low, and

their branches so matted together, that some of the smaller animals have

been known to travel a considerable distance on the tops of the stunted

trees. The most useful tree indigenous to the island is the tamarack or

larch, the timber of which is employed in building small vessels. The

elm and the beech are rare, and the maple and oak unknown. The birch is

found abundantly in some situations, and is said to have been used by

the aborigines not only in making canoes, but a certain tender portion

of it as food. The variety of recumbent and trailing evergreens is

immense, and all the berries peculiar to northern latitudes are so

abundant as to be an article of export. On leaving the wilderness and

approaching the habitations of man, at the proper season, it is found

that oats and potatoes thrive well, also the best of grasses and clover,

and the more common vegetables, such as beans, peas, and cabbages.

Indian corn does not mature, and wheat only thrives in the interior.

With regard to flowers, both cultivated and wild, the varieties are very

numerous, and though beautiful, few of them have any fragrance. The

mineral resources are undeveloped, but coal is abundant.

The climate of Newfoundland differs from that of Canada and New

Brunswick only in its extreme vicissitudes. It is not very cold, but

very unpleasant; very foggy, but not unhealthy. The pictorial effects of

frozen mist, which are common in the United States, are known in

Newfoundland as “silver thaws,” and are said to be very beautiful. The

thrush arrives in April and the shore lark is first heard in this month;

in May the grass begins to sprout, cod-fish are taken, the alder shoots

out its leaves, and potatoes are planted; in June the dandelion

blossoms, wild catkins come out, young thrushes are hatched, capelin

arrive along the shore and spawn, cherry-trees are in bloom, and the

butterflies deposit their eggs; in July green peas make their

appearance, house flies are numerous, and the capelin depart; in August

squids appear, hay-making commences, and beetles fly in swarms; in

September cherries are ripe, leaves of the birch-tree fade, and the

thrush migrates to the south; in October potatoes are dug, the berries

of the mountain-ash are ripe, and the snow-showers with the snow-bunting

appear; in November the Indian summer fills the land with beauty; and

from December to March frost and snow are universal and permanent. And

it is asserted as a remarkable fact that the principal shipwrecks which

have occurred on the southern coast of the island (near to which the

American and English steamers are in the habit of passing), have

happened on or about the time of the _spring tides_. Hence it has been

inferred that the currents run faster there, and are more dangerous at

those epochs than during the intervening time, which is a question that

ought to be fully investigated.

The animal kingdom of this huge island is peculiar and highly

interesting. A Swedish naturalist, who spent two years there, reported

the existence of five hundred species of birds. The water birds are

particularly numerous, the interior lakes affording secure

breeding-places for wild geese, and the rocky coasts affording

favourable situations for the eider duck. The wail of the loon is heard

on every sheet of water, and a white-headed eagle has his watch-tower in

every valley. Ptarmigan are abundant, but partridges unknown. The snowy

owl hoots to his fellow by the light of the aurora; and at midsummer the

humming-bird appears for a few days to make the children glad. Snipe,

plovers, and curlews are abundant. Of the larger quadrupeds, the

caribou, or American reindeer, are the most numerous, and are the only

animals of the deer kind on the island. Their paths intersect the

country like sheep-walks; they are not domesticated, but hunted only for

food. The black bear is found in the wilder parts, and an iceberg

occasionally comes floating down from the arctic regions bearing a white

bear as passenger. The wolf and the fox, the hare, the marten, the

beaver, the otter and musk-rat, are found throughout the interior; and

the entire coasts swarm with varieties of the seal, and the morse or

sea-lion is occasionally found.

Of domestic animals, the horse, sheep, cattle, and swine are all reared

to a limited extent; but this island is particularly famous for its

dogs. These are of two kinds, a brown wiry-haired and wolfish animal,

imported from Labrador, and the curly-haired Newfoundland species. The

best of them are perfectly black, and a genuine specimen can always be

known by his mouth, which is invariably black on the inside. They are

not large, but powerfully built, and very different from the American

dog bearing the same name. They subsist entirely upon fish, and are not

particular as to whether it is raw, salted, or putrid, and they have a

habit of catching their own fish. They are affectionate in disposition,

and are quite as much at home in the water as on dry land. They are very

numerous on the island, and when removed to a warmer climate are subject

to a glandular swelling in the ear, which often proves fatal. One of

them that was sent to Sir John Crampton in 1853, died from the effect of

heat only a few days after his arrival in Washington.

As to reptiles, not a snake, lizard, frog, or toad has ever been seen in

the country. As St. Patrick did in Ireland, some other benevolent saint

seems to have “banished all the varmint” from this region. In regard to

the finny tribes, the species are not so abundant as might be supposed,

but their immense numbers cannot be computed. In the inland lakes and

rivers, nothing but salmon and trout are ever found, but with nets they

are taken by the ton. Few and far between, however, are the fly-fishing

streams which have yet been discovered. More numerous by far are the

varieties of fish found in the surrounding sea, such as the whale and

porpoise, the dolphin and herring, the mackerel and capelin, but the

cod-fish outnumbers them all, and excels them, too, in local favour and

commercial importance. This fish is found in certain localities all

around the island, but the chief fishing grounds are off the south-east

coast. The Grand Bank, where the cod-fish do mostly congregate, is the

most extensive submarine plateau yet discovered. It is six hundred miles

long but two hundred wide, with a depth of water varying from

twenty-five to ninety fathoms; and upon this watery plain do the hardy

fishermen of at least five nations annually meet to follow their

laborious and venturesome business. Charlevoix, in speaking of the Grand

Bank, called it a mountain under the ocean.

The resident population of Newfoundland is now estimated at more than

160,000, and transient visitors at two-thirds of this figure. It is

governed by a Representative Assembly, with an Executive Council

appointed, like the Governor, by the Crown of England. Although the

colony has been erected into a Protestant See, most of the inhabitants

are Roman Catholics, the sons and daughters of Erin predominating.

Generally speaking, the inhabitants are simple in their manners, and

have but few educational opportunities. That everybody is, in one way or

another, connected with fishing or the seal-hunting business, is

self-evident, and there is also a great variety of nationalities

represented by the population. What is called the spring or seal fishery

employs about five hundred vessels, while the summer, or cod-fishery,

employs fifteen hundred vessels of all sizes. The total number of towns

and settlements on the island is about four hundred. The people are

industrious, toil without ceasing, and are contented with the

necessaries of life; and those who habitually leave home for business or

pleasure, have almost weekly opportunities for taking sailing packets to

England, and steamers ply regularly between St. John’s and Halifax.

Prior to the year 1822 the interior of Newfoundland had never been

explored by any white men, but at that time an enterprising Scotchman

named Cormack, accompanied by a single Micmac Indian, crossed the island

near its centre, and reached the western shore. He tried to obtain help

from the Government, but in vain. His leading idea was to discover the

haunts of the Red Indians, and open friendly communications with them.

In its romantic adventures and delightful intercourse with nature the

tour was probably never surpassed, and the hero, judging from a

narrative that he published, would seem to have had a warm appreciation

of all he saw. The silence and the gloom of the forests filled him with

awe; the wail of the loon at night on the lonely lakes, added intensity

to his feelings of solitude; he ascended to the top of a mountain-ridge,

and was transported with the views of the pure primeval wilderness which

faded away in all directions; wild and luscious berries, which were

found in many localities, afforded him an abundance of nourishment;

under a leafy canopy he nightly built his camp fire, and found

refreshing repose on a bed of lichens and reindeer moss; everything that

he saw, both animate and inanimate, seemed to be his own, and his will

exulted in its rare freedom; he saw the breeding-places of the wild

geese and bittern among the ridges, and the home of the curlew on the

barren hills; he saw immense herds of the caribou moving, like an army