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SOME 
 
 HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS 
 
 AMERICAN TRAVEL. 
 
 BV 
 
 EDWARD STRAHAN, SIDNEY LANIER, EDWARD A POLLARD 
 
 J 
 
 AND OTHERS. 
 
 PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 ?s.^ "!*""««*, i. 
 
 i1 
 
 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 
 1878. 
 

 CUPYKICHT, 1877, 
 
 By J. B. LippiNcoTT &■ Co 
 
 Lippincott's Press. 
 
 I'hil.uia. 
 
 / 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 A SWITCHBACK EXCURSION. H. C. Sheafer 5 
 
 VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. Edward Strahan 22 
 
 FROM PHILADELPHIA TO BALTIMORE. R. M. Copeland 55 
 
 FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. Edward Strahan 67 
 
 "MAY" IN JUNE. Edward Strahan 83 
 
 A NEW ATLANTIS. Edward Strahan 95 
 
 ST. AUGUSTINE IN APRIL. Sidney Lanier 107 
 
 THE OCKLAWAHA IN MAY. Sidney Lamer 121 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. E. A. Poi.i.akd 132 
 
 3 
 
SOME 
 
 HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS 
 
 OF 
 
 AMERICAN TRAVEL. 
 
 A SWITCHBACK EXCURSION. 
 
 "THE KLA(;iTAKI-," MALCll CHUNK. 
 
 T was on 
 a pleas- 
 ant morn- 
 ing in early 
 spring that 
 I met the Artist and the Railroad-man 
 at the depot of the North Pennsylvania 
 Railroad, prepared to take the cars for 
 what the Artist, who is addicted to pun- 
 ning, called "the Switcherland of Amer- 
 Our object was partly business 
 and partly pleasure ; in the proportion 
 uf nine parts of the latter to one of the 
 
 5 
 
A SWITCHBACK EXCURSION. 
 
 T- 
 
 LUllCH C.A1. 
 
 former: indeed, to be quite honest about 
 it, we were all glad to have an excuse 
 for a ten days' excursion in a region 
 which promised so much outdoor enter- 
 tainment. And the promise was kept. 
 Such another ten days of rough-and- 
 tumble experience — climbing mountains, 
 falling over rocks, exploring wild ra- 
 vines, diving into coal-mines, riding on 
 every description of conveyance which 
 it has entered into the mind of man to 
 invent to run on rail — such enormous 
 eating when we found an inn, and such 
 extravagant sleeping when the day was 
 done, — 1 doubt if any of the party had 
 ever experienced before. 
 
 The direct route from Philadelphia to 
 the Lehigh Valley and the vSwitchback 
 Railroad is up the North Pennsylvania 
 Road, usually called the "North Penn," 
 for short. This road cames you north- 
 
 ward on a smooth. wcU-ballasted track, 
 through a pleasant faiming-country, but 
 shows you few points where you will 
 care to spend much time in sight-seeing. 
 If you are wise, you will elect, as we 
 did, to be a through passenger. It ter- 
 minates at Bethlehem, and is there met 
 by two roads which run side by side up 
 the narrow valley of the Lehigh, and 
 open to the traveler one of the most de- 
 lightful short -trip routes in America. 
 Fifty years ago the valley was a wilder- 
 ness, with one narrow wagon-road crawl- 
 ing at the base of the hills beside a moun- 
 tain-torrent which defied all attempts to 
 navigate it. Now, the mountain-walls 
 make room for two railroads and a ca- 
 nal, but the tawny waters of the stream 
 are nearly as free as ever. Here and 
 there, indeed, a curb restrains them, 
 and once an elaborate system of dams 
 
A SWITCHBACK EXCURSION. 
 
 and locks tamed the wild river, and 
 made it from Mauch Chunk to White 
 Haven a succession of deep and tranquil 
 pools. But one day in 1862 the waters 
 rose in their might. Every dam was 
 broken, every restraint swept away, and 
 from White Haven to Mauch Chunk the 
 stream ran free once more. The mem- 
 
 MAut^hi Chunk kkum thk mountain-ROAD. 
 
 ory of that fearful day is still fresh in the 
 minds of the dwellers in the valley, and 
 the bed of the torrent is still strewn with 
 the wrecks that went down before its 
 wrath. The Lehigh Company, who had 
 planned and constructed this magnif- 
 icent system of slackwater navigation, 
 looked on in silent dismay, saw the 
 labor of years vanish in a moment, 
 shook their heads, and — proceeded to 
 build a railroad. After that day's ex- 
 perience they felt as if they could never 
 trust the river again. 
 
A SWITCHBACK EXCURSION. 
 
 I have said that our trip was partly for 
 business and partly for pleasure. Had 
 it been wholly for pleasure, we should 
 have waited for the 9.45 train from the 
 North Penn depot, which would have 
 taken us over the Lehigh and Susque- 
 
 hanna Road. As it was, we rose at an 
 uncomfortably early hour and took the 
 eight o'clock train, which connects with 
 the Lehigh Valley Road. In either case, 
 however, the discomfort ends with the 
 traveler's arrival at the depot. Thence 
 
 RESIDENCES OF HON. ASA PACKER AND HON. JOHN LEISENRING, MAUCH CHUNK. 
 
 comfortable cars take him to Bethlehem, 
 and from Bethlehem northward, over 
 either road, through the picturesque Le- 
 high Gap and up the mountain-valley. 
 
 Soon after leaving Bethlehem the 
 mountains approach the bed of the 
 stream, and at the Gap fling themselves 
 directly in its path, leaving it no resource 
 but to go through them ; which it has 
 accordingly done, cleaving the moun- 
 tain from summit to base in its efforts to 
 escape. 
 
 But it is not until the vicinity of Mauch 
 Chunk is reached that the peculiar fea- 
 tures of the Lehigh Valley appear in 
 perfection. From here northward it is 
 little better than a canon enclosed be- 
 tween high mountain -walls, at whose 
 bases the narrow stream tumbles and 
 foams, its waters now displaying the rich 
 amber hue which they have distilled 
 
 from the roots and plants in the swamps 
 around their source, now white from 
 their encounter with rock or fall. Huge 
 rocks hang directly overhead, and threat- 
 en to fall at any moment upon the trains 
 which constantly roll beneath ; branches 
 wave and flowers bloom on the hillside, 
 so close to the track of the railroad that 
 the passenger can almost reach them 
 without leaving his seat ; here and there 
 a miniature waterfall tumbles over the 
 brow of a mountain, and glances, a rib- 
 bon of foam and spray, to the river at 
 its foot ; and at frequent intervals ra- 
 vines cut in the mountain-side present a 
 confusion of rocks and wood and water 
 to the eye of the traveler as he flashes 
 by. Traced back a little way from their 
 mouths, these glens often show a wealth 
 of beauty, a succession of snowy cas- 
 cades, transparent _pools and romantic 
 
A SIVITCHBACK EXCURSION. 
 
 nooks which are an ever fresh surprise 
 to the explorer. 
 
 At White Haven both roads leave the 
 valley, cross the intervening mountain 
 and descend into the Wyoming V^alley 
 — a land celebrated in song and storj', 
 a land famous alike for its beauty and 
 its history. This, by the way, to fill up 
 the gap, as it were, between our depart- 
 ure from Philadelphia and our arrival at 
 Mauch Chunk. Here we were 
 to change cars and run up the 
 Nesquehoning Road to the 
 High Bridge. Half the pro- 
 posed change was accom- 
 plished successfully. We left 
 the Lehigh Valley train, but 
 while we waited for the Nes- 
 quehoning train to draw up in 
 front of the Mansion House, 
 it came and went, and we 
 missed it. 
 
 " No matter," said the Rail- 
 road-man. "We'll catch it at 
 the depot." Now the depot 
 was a quarter of a mile away, 
 and the train stopped there 
 about a quarter of a minute. 
 Evidently, there was no time 
 to be lost. We struck into a 
 lively run, the best man ahead, 
 while the Mauch Chunkites 
 looked out from four tiers of 
 houses to see the procession. 
 We made good time in that 
 quarter -mile heat, but the 
 track was curved and the 
 train had the inside. So we missed it. 
 It was the second time I had chased a 
 railroad-train, and I missed the first one. 
 I begin to believe I can't catch one. 
 
 When we arrived at the depot the 
 Artist and I said we had had enough 
 railroading for one day. We were sur- 
 prised to find what an appetite our ex- 
 ercise had developed, and proposed to 
 adjourn for dinner ; but the Railroad- 
 man wouldn't listen to us. He was 
 bound for the Nesquehoning, train or no 
 train, and he went. In less than five 
 minutes he had impressed a freight- 
 train, loaded us on it, and we were off. 
 The conductor warned us to " Look out 
 for sparks. She throws cinders pretty 
 
 lively, sometimes ;" and we soon began 
 to perceive the value of his admonition. 
 "She " — meaning the locomotive — utter- 
 ed a preliminary whistle, and then be- 
 gan to snort like a porpoise with the 
 whooping-cough, while the atmosphere 
 
 suddenly put on an ap 
 pearance as if a burnt- 
 cork factory was being distributed 
 through it in fine particles. The first 
 rod we traveled we turned our backs on 
 the engine ; the second we turned up 
 our coat-collars ; the third we crawled 
 behind a pile of sills on an open truck 
 — the same upon which we had at first 
 been seated. But all would not do. 
 The cinders continued to find us. They 
 flew into our mouths and ears and eyes 
 and noses, and down our backs and 
 up under our hats ; and wherever they 
 went they burned ; and when we pres- 
 ently struck a heavy grade they came 
 faster than ever. Human nature could 
 
A SWITCHBACK EXCURSIOX. 
 
 not stand it. "See here," said we, "this 
 won't do. We shall all look like con- 
 valescent smallpox patients in tive min- 
 utes more. Let's get out of this." 
 
 " Easier said than done. There isn't a 
 covered car on the train, and we're run- 
 ning too fast to jump off. Besides, we're 
 bound to see the bridge if we die for it." 
 
 NESQUEHONING BRIDGE. 
 
 " Let's get out on the cow-catcher." 
 
 " Lucky thought ! But have you ever 
 tried it?" 
 
 "Often. No cinders there, no smoke, 
 no dust ; but a pleasant breeze that will 
 be delightful this warm day ; and then 
 you're always the first to arrive." 
 
 "Enough! Lead on !" 
 
 We went forward and interviewed the 
 engineer. That dignitary was disposed 
 to accommodate us, but recommended 
 "a bright lookout for cows." 
 
 ''''Cows ! up here in the woods I" 
 " Lots of 'em. Run over one every 
 once in a while." 
 
 "All right ! If we see a cow we'll let 
 you know." We wanted to show that 
 engineer that we were brave men. We 
 never had been afraid of cows, and were 
 not going to be now. Besides, we were 
 half inclined to believe 
 he was hoaxing us. It 
 didn't look like a good 
 cow-country; and even 
 if it was, and the cows 
 were thick as grasshop- 
 pers, it was his business 
 to steer clear of them. 
 That's what he was 
 there for. 
 
 So we stepped lightly 
 out on the footboard, 
 took a hard grip on the 
 handrail and cautiously 
 made our way along the 
 iron monster's side, 
 placed a foot on the 
 steam-chest, swung over 
 on the bumper, and 
 there we were. It was 
 a glorious ride. The 
 broad platform on the 
 front of the engine fur- 
 nished excellent seats, 
 albeit they were a trifle 
 hard, and the bars of 
 the "pilot," as railroad- 
 men term the article 
 known to us as the cow- 
 catcher, seemed made 
 on purpose for foot- 
 rests. We could feel 
 every throb of the en- 
 gine's fiery heart, every 
 gasp of its rapid breathing: every joint 
 of the rails sounded as we passed like 
 the tramp of an iron hoof, and the huge 
 machine trembled in every fibre as it 
 flew along Tike a hving creature urged 
 to its utmost speed. The air was balmy, 
 the discomforts of the train all behind 
 us, and before us just enough prospect 
 of danger to add a pleasant thrill of ex- 
 citement to the attractions of the ride. 
 The sharp nose of the "pilot" skimmed 
 along just above the track, threatening 
 
A SWITCHBACK EXCURSIOX. 
 
 every instant to bury itself in the next 
 stone or sill that showed its head above 
 the dead level, and tumble us all into 
 the ditch, but always clearing the ob- 
 stacle by an inch or two, and running 
 on without a jar. For pleasant railroad- 
 traveling in warm weather I must rec- 
 ommend the cow - catcher. There's 
 nothing like it. The only drawback is 
 that it is risky. The 
 cars may run off the 
 track and smash all to 
 bits, and you may 
 crawl out from under 
 the ruins perfectly un- 
 injured. I even know 
 an engineer whose en- 
 gine took hini'down an 
 embankment, and lit- 
 erally, and without any 
 fiction about it, rolled 
 over him twice ; and 
 he picked himself up 
 as sound as you are, 
 got another engine 
 and train and went 
 ahead, for it was war- 
 time and he was con- 
 veying important or- 
 ders. But a cow-catch- 
 er never does things 
 by halves. You ride 
 safely or you are kill- 
 ed instantly : one or 
 the other is bound to 
 happen. 
 
 In our case it was 
 tiie former. We rush- 
 ed along in perfect 
 safety, and though the 
 predicted cow appeared in due time, 
 and stood defiantly on the track for a 
 while, she changed her mind before we 
 came within striking-distance and walk- 
 ed quietly away. 
 
 The Nesquehoning bridge has great 
 local celebrity as the highest bridge in 
 the country. It is flung from one moun- 
 tain to another at an elevation of one 
 hundred and sixty-eight feet above the 
 Little Schuylkill, an insignificant stream 
 flowing through a deep gorge. Its length 
 is eleven hundred feet, and the view 
 each way from its platform is one worth 
 
 going all the way to see. The Railroad- 
 man inspected it. The Artist made what 
 he called a " rough sketch" of it — it took 
 him ten minutes, and looked like a per- 
 spective view of a centipede — and then 
 the Catawissa Express came along, and 
 carried us back to Mauch Chunk and a 
 late dinner. 
 
 It was the first day out, and we didn't 
 
 i\H)LM llM.All PIANt 
 
 care how hard we traveled. We learned 
 better afterward, but now, when the Rail- 
 road-man said, "Shall we go over the 
 Switchback this afternoon ?" the ques- 
 tion was carried unanimously in the 
 affirmative. 
 
 So he sent out and ordered a "special 
 train." That sounds magnificent, does 
 it not ? We thought so, and we felt like 
 millionaires as we walked into the Man- 
 sion House and ordered our late dinner. 
 
 Dinner over, we walked leisurely to 
 "the train " — a stroll which involved the 
 ascent of what, in any other part of the 
 
A SWITCHBACK EXCURSION. 
 
 country, would be called "pretty consid- 
 erable of a hill." The Gravity Road 
 nominally runs to the foot of Mount 
 Fisgah, but the road gives out some time 
 before the gravity does. Ordinary tour- 
 ists make the intervening distance in 
 coaches — we aristocrats did it on foot. 
 
 
 "•^ 
 
 VIEW hOLllI IKu.M llIK 1 REi>l LlNi;, -MtJLNT PlSGAll 
 
 The special train was in waiting when 
 we arrived. It consisted of one flat car, 
 half the size of a billiard-table, with 
 seats for ten, and no top. A pretty little 
 affair, what there was of it, but it scarcely 
 came up to our expectations of a special 
 train. 
 
 "This is the superintendent's car. 
 He has loaned it to us as a special favor. 
 The covered cars will not suit our pur- 
 pose as well as this." 
 
 Then we took heart again, and got on 
 board, but the Artist looked suspicious- 
 ly at the track before us, and asked 
 questions enough to fill the Shorter 
 Catechism. 
 
 "What's that ?" 
 
 " Mount Fisgah Plane, two thousand 
 three hundred and 
 twenty -two feet 
 long. You are 
 now two hundred 
 and fifteen feet 
 above the river, 
 and the river here 
 is five hundred 
 and twenty feet 
 above tide-water ; 
 and when you get 
 to the top of the 
 plane you will be 
 six hundred and 
 sixty - four feet 
 higher still. That 
 iron band hauls 
 up the empty cars 
 on their way back 
 to the mines. It 
 is attached to a 
 ' safety-truck ,' 
 which is down in 
 that hole at the 
 foot of the plane. 
 It goes down 
 there, so that the 
 cars can pass over 
 and get in front 
 of it. There it 
 goes now. You 
 see it pushes ten 
 or a dozen cars 
 before it up the 
 plane. The wire 
 rope which it 
 drags after it runs over a drum-wheel at 
 the foot of the plane — there it is, that 
 uneasy thing which is always trying to 
 haul a cart-load of old iron up the hill, 
 and never succeeding^and the other 
 end of the rope pulls down the safety- 
 truck on the other track. You see that 
 long arm which projects from the side 
 of the safety-truck and counts the teeth 
 of that iron thingumbob between the 
 tracks with such monotonous regularity ? 
 
A SWITCHBACK EXCURSION. 
 
 That's the ' safety' part of the arrange- 
 ment. It is expected to hold the train 
 right there in case the bands happen to 
 break. — Oh, bless you, yes ! They break 
 every now and then. Never broke yet 
 Avith a passenger-train, though — we don't 
 load 'em heavy enough — but if they did 
 the ratchet would 
 hold the cars till 
 the bands were 
 spliced again. 
 This is the last 
 season for coal- 
 trains. We are 
 sending a good 
 deal of our coal 
 through the Nes- 
 quehoning tunnel 
 now, and pretty 
 soon shall send it 
 all that way ; and 
 then this road will 
 be used for pas- 
 senger business 
 exclusively." 
 
 This connected 
 discourse is the 
 substance of an- 
 swers to the Art- 
 ist's catechism. 
 The questions 
 would only take 
 up room to no pur- 
 pose, and, besides, 
 I like to dispense 
 information in sol- 
 id chunks. 
 
 By the time this 
 exercise was con- 
 cluded we were on 
 our way up the 
 plane. Our ten or 
 twelve hundred 
 pounds were a mere bagatelle to the big 
 engines accustomed to drawing up fif- 
 teen or twenty tons at a time, and we 
 glided lightly and safely to the top, 
 where the catechetical instruction was 
 resumed. 
 
 " Angle of plane is about twenty de- 
 grees. That is Upper Mauch Chunk on 
 the plateau to the right of the plane, 
 and across the river you see East Mauch 
 Chunk. Better location than the orig- 
 
 inal settlement — after you get up to it. 
 No trouble about the drainage, eh ? 
 Old town was started in 1818. Urst 
 child — living still, I believe — was Nich- 
 olas Brink, born in 1820, and was 
 named after everybody in the settle- 
 ment. Had names enough for all his 
 
 VIEW NORTH FROM THE TRESTLING, MOUNT PISGAH. 
 
 descendants to the third generation. 
 It's getting late. All aboard !"— and he 
 hurried us away without giving us half 
 enough time to enjoy the magnificent 
 views from the trestling at the top of the 
 plane. We must keep moving if we 
 would do the whole twenty-five miles of 
 C.ravity Road between that time and six 
 o'clock, when the planes would cease 
 working. So we set out without further 
 delav. 
 
H 
 
 A SWITCHBACK EXCURSION. 
 
 UN THE GRADE. 
 
 MANSION HOUSE, MAUCH CHUNK. 
 
 The Railroad -man 
 sat in front and held 
 the brake, a lever by 
 which he could slow or 
 stop the truck at will ; 
 but he seldom had the 
 will to do it. As a 
 j^eneral thing, he let it 
 lun. The grade from 
 Mount Pisgah to the 
 foot of Mount Jeffer- 
 son is sixty feet to the 
 mile — just enough to 
 propel a light car at a 
 moderate speed. The 
 ride was through the 
 woods all the way — a 
 pleasant, breezy, cool 
 and clean run, with no 
 danger in it that could 
 not be avoided by a 
 judicious use of the 
 brake. At Mount Jef- 
 ferson we wer, hauled 
 up another plane, two 
 thousand and seventy 
 feet long, and four 
 hundred and sixty-two 
 feet high ; and one 
 
A SIVITCHBACK EXCURSION. 
 
 mile from its top we ran into Summit 
 Hill. 
 
 Then we ran down into Panther 
 Creek Valley, and traversed the whole 
 course of the Switchback Road, re- 
 turning late in the evening, and whizz- 
 ing down the nine miles between Sum- 
 mit Hill and Mauch Chunk in nine- 
 teen minutes. 
 
 Mine host Booth, at the Mansion 
 House, gave us, as he gives everybody, 
 an excellent supper and splendid beds, 
 and we made his house our head-quar- 
 ters during our stay. We sat on the 
 piazza after supper and smoked cigars 
 and chatted, and watched the fires on 
 the mountains, which drew bands of 
 flame all around the town, and counted 
 the long coal-trains that wound among 
 the hills on either side of the valley ; 
 and when we were tired of this we went 
 to bed, and were lulled to sleep by the 
 plash and drowsy tumult of the river 
 under our windows. 
 
 We made another trip over the Switch- 
 back a few days after, and as this is not 
 a consecutive narrative I may as well tell 
 the whole story here, and have done 
 with it. 
 
 To begin at the beginning: "The 
 Switchback" is not a switchback at all, 
 in the technical sense of the word, and 
 has not been for years. Originally, 
 there were several switchbacks along 
 the "Gravity Railroad," which is the 
 proper name. for the line under consid- 
 eration, and they were operated thus: 
 the cars, running smoothly on a down 
 grade, would reach a point where thev 
 suddenly found themselves going up 
 hill at such a rate that they were quick- 
 ly compelled to stop. Then the attrac- 
 tion of gravitation, constantly drawing 
 them down hill, would cause them to 
 reverse their direction and run back ; 
 but when they again reached the place 
 where the grade changed, a switch, 
 worked by a spring, threw them on an- 
 other track, and they continued their 
 journey down the mountain in a direc- 
 tK)n contrary to that in which they had 
 Ren running before they came to the 
 switchback. The next interruption 
 would send them in the original direc- 
 
 VIEVV IN THE "OPEN OUAKRV. 
 
 tion ; and in this zigzag fashion they 
 accomplished the descent into Panther 
 Creek Valley. Later and better en- 
 gineering has changed the switchbacks 
 into curves, and the descent from Sum- 
 mit Hill to the mines is made without 
 interruption ; but the name, which at 
 first was local and applied to a particu- 
 lar point, gradually spread until it in- 
 cluded the entire road. 
 
 And now, having done away with the 
 switchback business, we will adhere to 
 the proper title, and call our mountain- 
 path the Gravity Road. ' 
 
 COAL VEIN. 
 
i6 
 
 A SWITCHBACK EXCURSION. 
 
 This is next to the oldest railroad in 
 the United States. Its only predecessor 
 was a road three miles long connected 
 with the Quincy stone-quarries in Massa- 
 chusetts. That was built in the fall of 
 1826 — this went into operation in May, 
 1827. 
 
 At first the road extended only from 
 Summit Hill to Mauch Chunk. There 
 was no return track, and consequently 
 no planes, the empty cars being hauled 
 back to the mines by gangs of mules, 
 which, in turn, were transported to 
 Mauch Chunk in cars designed express- 
 ly for their use — a ride which they learn- 
 ed to value so much that no amount of 
 persuasion could induce them to make 
 the journey on foot. Subsequently, the 
 Panther Creek mines were opened, the 
 
 Switchback propei made to reach them, 
 and planes built to assist gravitation in 
 tiansporting the cars 
 
 We visited the spot wheie, in 1791, 
 Philip Ginther stumbled over a fortune 
 that was not for him, and where the 
 famous "Open Quarry " was afterward 
 worked. A part of the wide excavation 
 has been filled up with the refuse from 
 other workings, but enough remains to 
 give the visitor an idea of the immense 
 mass of coal originally deposited here. A 
 better idea of the disposition of the strata 
 can be gained, however, at an adjoining 
 opening, where the outcrop of the vein 
 has fallen into the subterranean work- 
 ings. The solid mass of coal is here 
 seen just as the last earthquake left it — 
 a mass of pure, glittering fuel, forty feet 
 or more in thickness (we did not mea- 
 sure it, for reasons apparent in the illus- 
 tration), and running, at a steep pitch, 
 far down into the bowels of the earth. ^ 
 "This fall," said the Railroad-man, 
 "carried part of the track running into 
 ' No. 2' down with it, and we had no end 
 
A SlVnCHBACK EXCURSION. 
 
 17 
 
 of bother with it before we got it filled 
 up again and the track relaid. That 
 hole you see at the bottom is some six 
 hundred feet deep, and dumping gravel 
 into it was almost like trying to fill up 
 the bottomless pit itself." 
 
 "Why didn't you go round it ?" 
 
 "Couldn't. You see those alps of 
 coal-dirt all around us. We should have 
 had to move those at any rate, and so 
 we just moved a few of them in here 
 — sent them back where they came 
 from, as it were — and so at last the 
 thing was done." 
 
 " Does that thing happen often .?" 
 
 "What thing.?" 
 
 " Losing your track suddenly in that 
 fashion. Because, if it is, we prefer 
 some other road. We're not ready to 
 start for China by the underground 
 route just yet." 
 
 " Don't alarm yourselves. We keep 
 a lookout for breakdowns, and know 
 just where the ground is weak. You 
 will go through safely enough this 
 trip, and hereafter, if you're fearful, 
 you can confine yourselves to the regu- 
 lar passenger-route from Mauch Chunk 
 to Summit Hill and return. There's 
 no danger there." 
 
 So we were comforted, and went on 
 to "No. 2," which is one of the oldest 
 collieries in the region ; and enjoyed 
 the fine view of Panther Creek Valley 
 which is seen from the end of its dirt- 
 bank; and looked down the slope, which 
 they told us was fifteen hundred feet 
 deep (we didn't measure it) ; and then 
 we took a look at Summit Hill, which is 
 dirty and uninteresting in itself, like all 
 mining towns ; and then we mounted 
 our truck again and shot down a fear- 
 fully steep grade into Panther Creek 
 Valley. 
 
 Here one of the first things we were 
 shown was a burning mine, but it was a 
 poor affair, recently kindled and on the 
 verge of being extinguished. The only 
 noticeable thing about it was the process 
 of putting out the fire by forcing car- 
 bonic acid gas into the mine, and that 
 we dsd not see. There is another mine 
 at Summit Hill, which has been burning 
 for thirty years, and is likely to burn for 
 2 
 
 thirty more : that, now, is something to 
 brag of. A greater curiosity was the 
 entrance to the Nesquehoning tunnel, 
 four thousand feet long, a work com- 
 pleted last winter, and one which at one 
 fell swoop claps an extinguisher on the 
 Gravity Road with all its complicated 
 machinery. Hereafter, all the coal of 
 this region, instead of careering wildly 
 
 JIM. 
 
 over the mountains, drawn by viewless 
 steeds and enveloped in an atmosphere 
 of romance, will be drawn by a com- 
 monplace locomotive upon a common- 
 place track through this tunnel and 
 down the Nesquehoning Road, to Mauch 
 Chunk and a market. But the Gravity 
 Road will remain for the present, and 
 passenger-trains will still run on it for 
 the accommodation of those who wish 
 to enjoy its exhilarating ride, its grand 
 scenery and its many points of interest. 
 
 Before our return home, the Railroad- 
 man proposed that we should spend a 
 day at Upper Lehigh. 
 
 "Where's that ? ' shouted the chorus. 
 
 "Up among the mountains back of 
 White Haven. New place, just chopped 
 out of the woods : splendid scenery- 
 rocks, ravines, cascades, good hotel — " 
 
i8 
 
 A SVVirCHBACK EXCURSION.. 
 
 
 PROSPECT ROCK AiNU THE NESCOPEC VALLEY 
 
 " That'll do ! When do we start ?" 
 The Railroad-man named a time for 
 rising, somewhere among "the wee, sma' 
 hours;" and with the time came Jim to 
 wake us. 
 
 Jim is one of the institutions of Mauch 
 Chunk. He is a colored citizen, the 
 porter of the Mansion House, and his 
 duties are those heterogeneous ones 
 which pertain to porters generally, and 
 to porters in country hotels particularly. 
 To the traveler entering the town by the 
 Lehigh and Susquehanna Road the first 
 sight of Mauch Chunk is Jim standing 
 
 m fionl of the hotel 
 and shouting, "Twenty 
 minutes for dinner ! Step 
 right this way, gemmen." 
 And when the twenty min- 
 utes have expired, Jim is seen 
 vibrating like an ebony shut- 
 tlecock between the train and 
 the hotel, gesticulating ex- 
 citedly and urging the trav- 
 elers to an immediate de- 
 parture. " Time's up, gem- 
 men ! Train's a-goin'. All 
 aboard !" Then to the conductor, " Hi ! 
 hold on, dar ! Heah's a couple o' ladies 
 yit." ■ This duty fulfilled, Jim retires into 
 his sanctum, where he may be seen at 
 any time between-trains, blacking boots 
 and lecturing on politics to chance 
 hearers. 
 
 Well, Jim called us in the early morn- 
 ing — and morning among the Lehigh 
 Mountains is worth getting up to see. 
 We ate our breakfast, went to White 
 Haven, changed cars, and rode up the 
 Nescopec Railroad to L'pper Lehigh. 
 The Nescopec Road is nine miles long, 
 
A SIVITCHBACK EXCURSION. 
 
 19 
 
 and runs nothing but through trains, by 
 reason of there being no way stations on 
 the route. At the end of it is a coal- 
 breaker, one of the best in the anthra- 
 cite region, shipping five thousand tons 
 of coal a week ; 
 a good hotel 
 the Railroad- 
 man was right 
 about that ; a 
 row of miners' 
 houses and — 
 woods. We 
 walked about 
 half a mile 
 along a wood- 
 road, struck 
 into a footpath, 
 followed it a 
 hundred yards 
 or so, and with- 
 out warning, 
 walked out on 
 a flat rock from 
 which we could 
 a t first see 
 nothing but 
 fog, up, down or 
 around. It was 
 a misty morn- 
 ing, but we 
 made out to 
 understand 
 that we were 
 on the verge of 
 a precipice 
 which fell sheer 
 down into a 
 tremendous 
 abyss; and 
 when the fog 
 lifted, as it did 
 about noon, we 
 looked out 
 upon miles 
 and miles of valleys partly cleared, but 
 principally covered with the primeval 
 forest. 
 
 We were on Prospect Rock then. 
 Presently our guide took us, by a round- 
 about way, to Cloud Point, a corre- 
 sponding projection, on the other side 
 of the glen, and here a still wider view, 
 another yet the same, lay before us. 
 
 We gazed on the beautiful landscape 
 until we thought we could afford to leave 
 it for a while, and then descended into 
 Glen Thomas, so called in honor of 
 David Thomas, the pioneer of the iron 
 
 CLOUD POINT, UPPER LEHIGH. 
 
 trade on the Lehigh. It 
 was the first of May, but we 
 found here mmiature gla- 
 ciers formed by the water 
 falling over the rocks, the 
 ice three feet and more in 
 thickness, and so solid that 
 a pistol-ball fired at it point- 
 blank rebounded as from a 
 rock, while not a hundred 
 yards away May flowers 
 were blooming in fragrant 
 abundance. 
 We spent the whole day in rambling 
 over the rocks and through the glen, 
 and at evening took the return train to 
 White Haven, the Artist and the Pho- 
 tographer — who had joined us at Mauch 
 Chunk — vowing to return soon and 
 often. 
 
 Another long-to-be-remeixibered ex- 
 cursion was to Moore's Ravine, a wrinkle 
 
A SWITCHBACK EXCURSION. 
 
 in the mountain-side two miles 
 above Mauch Chunk, fill- 
 ed with tall hemlockb, and 
 at their feet a stream turn 
 bling, in a continual sue ^ 
 cession of cascades, fioni 
 the top of a moun- 
 tain to its base. In 
 little more than a 
 quarter of a mile the 
 stream makes a sheei 
 descent of at least 
 three hundred feet, 
 distributing it m 
 twenty -one cascades 
 and waterfalls. Two 
 of these, which aiL 
 so close together 
 as almost to make ^ , 
 one continuous 
 fall and are 
 named Moore's 
 F a 1 Is, are 
 over a hun 
 dred feet 
 in t o t a 
 height. 
 The oth- 
 ers are 
 smaller, 
 but 
 no 
 
 MOORRS FALLS. 
 
 less beautiful, while the limpid pools 
 of still water among them are by no 
 means the least attractions of the place. 
 
 But the 
 glen IS as 
 wild as it 
 is picturesque, 
 and to see it 
 requires a good 
 supply of both 
 muscle and perse- 
 verance. It has nev- 
 "- cr been "improved," 
 even to the extent of a 
 footpath, and the visitor might 
 fancy himself the first that had 
 ever entered it if it were not 
 for the evidences to the con- 
 trary borne by prominent 
 places where a couple of idiots 
 have scrawled their names in white pai nt. 
 I hope I may be forgiven for wishing 
 they had tumbled over the highest fall. 
 
A SWITCHBACK EXCURSION. 
 
 But the growing length of this article 
 warns me to "cut it short." I may not 
 tell of our carriage-ride into the Ma- 
 honing Valley, with its pleasant 
 views and drives ; nor of moun- 
 tain-climbing at Mauch Chunk ; 
 nor of the flying visit we paid 
 to Wilkesbarre and Scranton in 
 the beautiful Wyoming Valley ; 
 nor of the day we spent in the 
 pleasant Moravian town of Beth- 
 lehem, where we put up at an an- 
 cient hostelrie which was called 
 the " Sun Tavern" a hundred and 
 odd years ago, and which, under 
 the more modern title of the " Sun 
 Hotel," is now, as it was then, 
 one of the best inns in the inte- 
 rior of the State. All 
 these things must re- 
 main untold, but the 
 reader can enjoy them 
 all for himself at small 
 cost of time or money. 
 He can see the Lehigh 
 Valley, Switchback 
 and all, in a single 
 day, returning to Phil- 
 adelphia the same 
 evening, or he can 
 spend a whole sum- 
 mer in exploring its 
 woods and mountains. 
 
 His best plan, how- 
 ever, for a short trip, 
 is to leave Philadelphia 
 or New York on one of 
 the early trains, timing 
 himself so that he can 
 be at the Mansion 
 House, Mauch Chunk, 
 in time for dinner. 
 This is the best hotel 
 in the valley above 
 AUentown, and for that 
 reason he will do well 
 to make it his stopping- 
 
 place for the night. After dinner he 
 will have plenty of time to go over the 
 Gravity Road and return in time for 
 supper. Next morn- 
 ing an early train will 
 take him to White 
 Haven, where he can 
 change cars and run 
 up the Nescopec Road 
 to Upper Lehigh, 
 which he will reach 
 about noon. Here he 
 will have ample time 
 to dine and explore 
 Glen Thomas, but 
 not to see all the fine 
 views from this sin- 
 gjLilar mountain - top 
 if he would return by 
 the afternoon train. 
 This train makes con- 
 nections for both Phil- 
 adelphia and New 
 York, either of which 
 can be reached the 
 same evening ; but 
 a third day can be 
 profitably spent at 
 Upper Lehigh, and 
 part of a fourth in ex- 
 ploring Moore's Ra- 
 vine — to me one of 
 the greatest attractions 
 about Mauch Chunk, 
 but, unfortunately, ac- 
 cessible from that 
 place only on foot. 
 It demands a hard 
 walk and a hard 
 climb, but offers in re- 
 turn a scene of wild 
 and rugged magnif- 
 icence which in all 
 my mountain - climb- 
 ing I have never seen 
 excelled. 
 
 •AMBER CASCADE, GLEN THOMAS. 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 WE can think of but one British poet of eminence 
 who has described an American river from real 
 personal examination and intimacy, and that with such 
 memorable iteration that its praises are really bound 
 up with the great circulating volume of English song. 
 The residence of Arthur Hugh Clough in this country 
 was too short, too unsympathetic, and the print of 
 American scenery upon his verse was 
 too faint, for him to form an exception 
 The exceptional river thub dwelt on 
 and whose banks were habitual!) press 
 ed by British poet-feet, is the SchuvlkiU 
 River only : as for the poet, it is Tom- 
 my Moore only. The laurels of this 
 particular invader will haidly keep any 
 
 .Ni.^'' 
 
 
 UP THL bCHLYIKIIl 1 ROM COLUMBIA BRIDCJE. 
 
 Themistocles of ouib fiom sleeping. But such 
 
 as he was, Moore conquered the Schuylkill 
 
 shores to the domain of literature, and laid them hot- 
 
 " " _^ pressed and gilt-edged on every genteel centre-table 
 in England. 
 Doubtless the Dutch and negro dwellers by the river Vaal 
 '^ in South Africa thought little of their stream until speculators 
 •^ from afar came and showed its diamonds. For our own poor part 
 ^^''^ we had passed and repassed the basin of the Schuylkill in all kinds 
 
 of diameters, and had always thought of it — may the muse of Romance forgive us 
 
 22 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 23 
 
 — rather commercially than aesthetically, 
 when one day a party of bright beings 
 from another sphere — Bostonians in fact 
 — removed the scales from our eyes. 
 These visitors, very prudish in regard to 
 
 WISSAHICKON CREEK. 
 
 landscape attractions, and very ready 
 with a don t-touch-me ! toward any nov- 
 el sensation that should come forward 
 and try to impress them without a prop- 
 er introduction, capitulated at once to 
 Schuylkill, which indeed laid itself out 
 with all its fascinations in their behalf. 
 
 With us, too, it was holiday week, if we 
 remember right, and the river was asso- 
 ciated with liberty and recreation. There 
 were maiden aunts in spectacles, like the 
 maiden aunt in Tennyson's Princess; 
 tall, smooth-haired, in- 
 tensely grammatical 
 girls from Cambridge ; 
 and a mild, intelligent 
 old man like a philos- 
 opher, to bring all to- 
 ;4ether their fresh and 
 candid eyes into criti- 
 cism of the prospect, 
 which to them seemed 
 a scene in the far South. 
 We need not say how 
 easily, under such influ- 
 ences, our week became 
 a decameron. These 
 hyperboreans from the 
 Charles were never tired 
 of praising the bowery 
 perfection of Schuylkill 
 beauty. Our decameron 
 was passed — no matter 
 low many Junes ago — 
 n the very pride and 
 )omp of early summer. 
 The hilly shores were 
 tufted with trees, every 
 leaf of which, bursting 
 with sap and crisp with 
 rain and dew, danced in 
 •he sunshine and twirled 
 Is glossy side or its 
 lowny side out to be 
 idmired: mostimmacu- 
 1 ite of rivers, the Schuyl- 
 kill rolled its torrent of 
 lewels between these 
 dark-green banks — 
 — _ l)anks where the leap- 
 F- ^^^ 1 jng blood of Nature 
 , —~^ ^ C seemed to throb every- 
 
 where with riot of life 
 and strength. The air, 
 neither hot nor cold, but elastic with the 
 cool crispness of morning, was respira- 
 ble lusciousness : it was a delight to let 
 it rattle through the linen draperies of 
 summer-time. The bees hugged the 
 flowers in the ladies' laps with their 
 wiry legs. Everybody had bouquets 
 
24 
 
 VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 and fruits : it seemed a picture of the 
 immortal "Ladies' Garden" in the mas- 
 terpiece of Boccaccio, whose "variety of 
 plants, and how elegantly disposed, it 
 would be needless to mention, since 
 there was nothing belonging 
 to our climate which was not 
 there in great abundance. In 
 the middle of this garden, what 
 seemed more delightful than 
 anything else, was a meadow 
 the grass of a deep green 
 spangled with a thousand flow 
 eis and set round with trees 
 ... in the centre of this mea 
 dow a fountain." The price 
 less charm of Schuylkill V il 
 ley in June was observed to 
 be its limpid breath — an an 
 seemingly borne from bloom 
 ing vineyards in Val d'Arno 
 and stimulating like wine 
 The company from Boston 
 used to the thinner, saltci 
 breeze of the northerly coast, 
 could not drink it eagerly 
 enough. It was a treat to 
 hear them praising this opu 
 lent atmosphere and this Ital- 
 ian river in that high-bred 
 New England accent which 
 has a sound of such distinction 
 when heard amid the moie 
 lazy dialects of the South 
 And it was pleasant to find 
 these fastidious blues, at Niag 
 ara afterward, comparing tht. 
 various delights of all then 
 journey, and actually select 
 ing this green bank of Schuvl 
 kill as the " captain jewel of 
 the carcanet." Memories of 
 idle days so passed have a 
 self- prolonging virtue ; and 
 passing the same hills petrified to mar- 
 ble in the snow, we find them retaining 
 a fragrance of the remembered summer, 
 and only seeming harsher as dried rose- 
 leaves are harsher than a rose. 
 
 The style of Thomas Moore, with ev- 
 ery other word an adjective, is out of 
 date at present. A sight of the Schuyl- 
 kill does a great deal more for its repu- 
 tation than all his epithets. There is 
 
 something touching, however, when you 
 get over the verbiage, in Moore's con- 
 fession of loneliness and homesickness 
 as he dwelt by the " flowery banks :" he 
 recites, in the principal poem dedicated 
 
 
 now, in 
 
 VALLEY FUKGE. 
 
 to the river, his restless pacings up and 
 down the brink, feeling how far away 
 dear London was, and the friends he 
 loved there. Nothing reminded him of 
 home, he says, until, coming to sing his 
 own songs as he had sung them in many 
 an English parlor, he found that fine 
 American eyes would melt at his voice 
 and his words as the eyes of London 
 ladies had often melted before. No 
 doubt this discovery of his uninterrupted 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 25 
 
 power was exquisitely grateful : no won- 
 der he blessed the tear that showed him 
 how " like eyes he had loved was her 
 eloquent eye : like them did it soften 
 and weep at his song." Another of his 
 Schuylkill poems describes a perfect 
 wilderness. The land around "Tom 
 Moore's Cottage" was not cleared sixty- 
 
 seven years ago: he pictures the "lone 
 little wood," the hollow beech with the 
 woodpecker hammering at it, the spring 
 shadowed by the sumach, the wild-fiow- 
 er cradling the "voluptuous bee," the 
 clump of elms completely hiding the 
 house, which is only revealed by its curl 
 of" smoke : in a cottage like this he in- 
 
 SCHUYLKILL RIVER ABOVE POTTSTOWN. 
 
 timates he would like a residence and 
 "a maid." Moore was generally dis- 
 pleased with what he saw of American 
 democracy, which he thought showed 
 "maturity in most of the vices," and a 
 "strife between half- polished and half- 
 barbarous life;" but he excepted from 
 his strictures a little band of Philadelphia 
 gentlemen, who, we suppose, were pro- 
 ficient in "the tear" and in paying atten- 
 tion to his songs ; and he wrote to the 
 Hon. W. R. Spencer — 
 
 Believe me, Spencer, while I winged the hours 
 Where Schuylkill winds his way through banks of 
 
 flowers, 
 Though few the days, the happy evenings few, 
 So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew. 
 That my charmed soul forgot the wish to roam. 
 And rested there as in a dream of home. 
 
 Such are the principal passages in which 
 Feramorz celebrates the Schuylkill. Ev- 
 ery visitor to Fairmount Park knows the 
 homely little one-and-a-half-story hut in 
 which he lived, the authenticity of which 
 has never been creditably assailed. In 
 
 his day, when the river was alive with 
 fish, and the brawl of Schuylkill Falls, 
 some two miles above, could be faintly 
 heard in the moony nights, it must have 
 been a pretty retreat for a prophet in 
 search of a wilderness. 
 
 The incessant trains of the Reading 
 Railroad sweep near the cottage many 
 times a day. They command, here at 
 the easterly end of their route, the often- 
 described scenery of Fairmount Reser- 
 voir, the Park, and the Schuylkill thread- 
 ed with quite a cat's-cradle of bridges. 
 It is not every railroad that has the luck 
 to have a great park for a depot. At 
 Belmont Station one of the finest sweeps 
 of the Park scenery is before the eye, 
 while for foreground figures the heavy 
 bronze groups of Pegasus and the Muses, 
 originally intended for a Vienna theatre, 
 stand on guard upon their twin pedestals. 
 The river hereabout and hereabove is 
 pent in by the brimming dam of the 
 Waterworks, so as to look exactly like a 
 
26 
 
 VIGNETTES EROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 lake. Into its broad, unruffled mirror 
 dip the reflections of ancestral trees 
 grown upon the old estates which com- 
 pose the modern pleasure-ground, of the 
 fanciful gables of the aquatic club-houses, 
 and the arbors and monuments of that 
 enormous garden. Then — sharp satire 
 upon our diversions and pleasure- 
 grounds ! — come the gardens of the 
 
 dead, the cemeteries, where they take 
 their leisure too, and go to rest from 
 their labors : the sinister beauty of Laurel 
 Hill, bristling with white obelisks among 
 its over-cultivated bowers, is a terrible 
 successor to Fairmount, like a moral 
 tacked on to a ballad. 
 
 The Falls of Schuylkill, which were 
 brawling cataracts until 1816, when the 
 
 SCHUYLKILL RIVER HELOW READING. 
 
 level of the river was raised by the ob- 
 struction at the Waterworks below, give 
 their name to an old-fashioned village, 
 the terminus of many a hard-fought trot- 
 ting-match, at the convenient distance of 
 four miles out from Philadelphia. Noth- 
 ing more funnily quaint and antique- 
 looking can be found in this country 
 than the absurd little Old Falls House, 
 a hostelry of the Middle Ages, broad 
 and low, that stands forth and stares at 
 the railway-train as though with arms 
 akimbo : the richly-mossed and ancient 
 bridge, too, that plants its gouty arches 
 through the water, looks more like some 
 feudal causeway over a Norman river 
 than like anything American. The vil- 
 lage at the Falls is in fact an anachro- 
 nism, which basks upon the water, en- 
 chanted and sleeping. One fancies the 
 town squire as a kind of lazy King of 
 Yvetot : he must be ruddy, round. 
 
 paunchy, white-headed and exempt from 
 death, his municipal duties confined to 
 talking horse-talk with that race of men 
 who spend their lives in trotting out from 
 the city in light sulkies and in eating 
 huge meals of catfish and coffee in the 
 half a dozen old taverns that stud the 
 bank with their walls and their dooryard 
 trees. At this point comes purling into 
 the Schuylkill that true artist's rivulet, 
 Wissahickon, cold from the hills. It is 
 almost unspoiled by civilization, its steep 
 banks are plumed with pines, and it ex- 
 pands, before losing itself in the larger 
 current, into a bright broad stream, cov- 
 ered in summer with festal boating-par- 
 ties, and musical with whole orchestras 
 of laughing girls ; then it curves grace- 
 fully under the High Bridge and blends 
 with Schuylkill, happy to have reflected 
 so much human happiness before it dies. 
 Townlets with the quaintest of names 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 27 
 
 — Pencoyd, Manayunk, Conshohocken 
 — intervene between the Falls and the 
 site of Penn's old Manor at Norriton. 
 
 These intrepid old settlements sit on the 
 riverside like knitters in the sun, assidu- 
 ously busy from morning till night, and 
 making no end of shirtings and 
 sheetings, paper and cloth; nor are 
 their many -windowed walls unpic- 
 ^ turesque, up which the stain of 
 ^^^^^ the water creeps like a half- 
 ^j^^^"' guessed design in a mouldy 
 ^^^ fresco, while their mirrored 
 
 """^ y=rA reflections remind vou 
 
 TUMBLING RUN. 
 
 vaguely of moated chateaux in France 
 or damp convents in Venice. 
 
 A grimy Vulcan, who rolls a great 
 deal of iron, is the city occupying 
 William Penn's demesne at Norriton, 
 changed by modern usage to Norris- 
 lown. The site is celebrated mostly 
 for its industries, but there are beautiful 
 views in the hills around ; the soil from 
 here back to Plymouth is enriched with 
 statuary marble, breccia marbles and 
 limestone ; and the town, as centre to a 
 very old and prosperous farming region, 
 yields many a reminiscence and history. 
 The county (Montgomery) has still a 
 
 German-speaking population in its north- 
 ern part, descendants of families that 
 have not budged for two hundred years. 
 It is near here that Mrs. Gibbons, the 
 historian of the Pennsylvania Germans, 
 finds her most eastwardly settlement of 
 strange and humble religionists. The 
 Schwenckfelder community is settled 
 some seven miles out of Norristown, 
 where its members practice the mild 
 tenets of their European founder. Here, 
 in their ancient and treasured volumes, 
 they keep the engraved portrait of their 
 prophet, dignified in furred robes and 
 patriarchal beard descending on his 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 breast. Caspar Schwenckfeldt, a noble- 
 man of Silesia, was born in 1490, and 
 originated a religion of quietism before 
 the Quakers, and a policy of non-resist- 
 ance anterior to Fox : his followers fur- 
 nished many emigrants to the American 
 shores, and these strayed with their com- 
 patriots into Pennsylvania. The dwin- 
 dled remnant of the sect, a sort of Ger- 
 man-speaking Quakers, lead humble 
 pastoral lives in this beautiful region, 
 their very existence as a church having 
 heretofore escaped the knowledge of 
 
 those who are curious in American re- 
 ligions. 
 
 A parallel branch of our railroad runs 
 up the river on its northerly side, and 
 ends here at Norristown : the Reading 
 Railway proper travels up the south 
 bank, only crossing the river at Phoenix- 
 ville. The river-scenery becomes finer 
 as we leave the thriving hamlets that ex- 
 tend westwardly, like a chaplet of beads, 
 from Philadelphia, and form a part of 
 its gigantic industries. As Nature begins 
 to assert her sway over the more distant 
 
 MOUNT CARBON. 
 
 wateib of our chosen river, the charm becomes more 
 distmctly sylvan or bucolic. The current slips through 
 a green gaiden, idle as a ribbon that lies on a beauty's 
 ^ lap, and all is like a dream of contentment. Valley Forge 
 __ "" lies east of Phoenixville, opposite to the mouth of Perkiomen 
 ~ Creek, which runs into the river with a babble of Pennsylvania 
 
 Dutch, caught up the country among the Mennonites and Bunkers. The ideas 
 that spread abroad hereabouts, and exert themselves in the tillage of the soil, are 
 ideas that are older than the American Revolution : the local intellect, the plod- 
 ding German mind, has hardly advanced for a century ; yet there is no recollection 
 in tlie landscape of those heroic times, and the buttercups laugh insolently where 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 29 
 
 Washington's famished heroes tracked 
 the snows with their bare feet. 
 
 There is nothing so fine in Ameri- 
 can story, nothing so admirable in Wash- 
 ingtonian biography, as the episode of 
 Valley Forge. The patriotism that en- 
 dures is a finer thing than the patriot- 
 ism that acts. The men who bore fam- 
 
 ine and pestilence here without mutiny 
 were worthy of the general who was 
 enduring, at the same place and time, 
 the calumnies of the conspirators at 
 Reading and the intrigues of Gates and 
 Lee for his overthrow. Hereabouts, 
 William Penn named some of the hills 
 as Adam named the beasts, only with 
 
 r.ERMANTOWN VALLEY. 
 
 a more jocular intention. Having lost 
 his way on one hill and recovered it on 
 another, he named them Mount Pleas- 
 ant and Mount Misery — names they re- 
 tain to this day, and names applied by 
 Washington, who never joked for his 
 part. 
 
 We pass through Pottstown and Doug- 
 lassville, and cross near their mouths the 
 Manatawny and Monocacy Creeks. The 
 river seems to grow more brilliant inch 
 by inch. Finally, three great hills, Mount 
 i'enn. Mount Washington and Mount 
 Neversink, converge together to make a 
 handsome shelter for a town, and here 
 ■he river, after twisting into several 
 cur\es and loops, straightens out and 
 Introduces the city of Reading. 
 
 A city of modern ideas, and of the 
 :astes and wants created by wealth, set 
 in the midst of a rural population par- 
 
 ticularly marked with ignorance, — such 
 is Reading, like Paley's famous watch 
 throbbing with contrivance and energy 
 in the midst of the common. Surround- 
 ed by all the dull calm of Pennsylvanian 
 Germany, this centre of art and com- 
 merce is itself a focus of animation, with 
 a social grade derived from the times 
 when the first people of the country fled 
 hither during the Revolutionary period, 
 and held a republican court while the 
 British menaced Philadelphia. It was 
 laid out in 1748 by Thomas and Richard 
 Penn, the Proprietaries. The world of 
 mineral wealth which it now distributes 
 was unknown to these town - planters, 
 but they were not blind to its position 
 as a commercial strategic point. When, 
 half a century after the Revolution, the 
 assignees of the Penn family attempted 
 to collect the ground-rents which had 
 
3° 
 
 VIGNETTES EROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 been originally reserved and afterward 
 neglected, great was the dismay in 
 Reading — stout resistance on the part 
 of the citizens, threats of breaking up 
 the local titles from the claimants, and 
 desperate diplomacy from the city au- 
 thorities, all resulting at last in com- 
 promise and peace. The imperiled pa- 
 triots who sought an asylum in Reading 
 while Washington was in 
 his utmost extremity at 
 the Forge (and who, in- 
 deed, quickly began plot- 
 ting for his removal from 
 command), — these ar- 
 dent revolutionists found 
 themselves in a place 
 which had been bedeck 
 ed by the loyal founders 
 with every monarchic 
 symbol : King street, 
 Queen street, Prince 
 street, Duke street, Eail 
 street, were the signs 
 painted on the very a\ 
 enues where they walked 
 to air their rebellious 
 thoughts. These feudal 
 names remained so late 7' 
 as 1833, when they weie - 
 changed, "as more com- 
 patible with the republi- 
 can simplicity of our 
 present form of government, 
 form went to lengths less commendable, 
 even to changing names of streets like 
 that called after Hannah Callowhill, the 
 second wife of William Penn : it ex- 
 hausted itself, too, in reducing the streets 
 to namelessness : it could not invent new 
 cognomens. This is the constant con- 
 fession of weakness made by civic au- 
 thorities in America, who seem to be 
 especially destitute of imagination : in a 
 hundred places besides Reading, when 
 called on for a similar suit of nomencla- 
 ture, their invention gives out — they are 
 unable to name the streets, and are 
 obliged to number them. 
 
 There are the loveliest imaginable 
 drives and excursions to be taken in the 
 Reading vicinity. We would point out, 
 as we pass along, the spots particularly 
 attractive to the excursionist ; but the 
 
 danger at Reading will be that he may 
 cease to be an excursionist and become 
 a fixture. This was the case, we recol- 
 lect, with a young lady of fashion who 
 passed through the place a year ago with 
 her just-accepted affinity. The bridal 
 tour included the stoppage for a day at 
 Reading : in the afternoon a short drive 
 was proposed, and in that drive the par- 
 
 Mi\L 1111 1 
 
 The re- 
 
 ticular charm of the spot found time to 
 do its work. The bride, fresh as she was 
 from Paris and Switzerland, found boule- 
 vards to her liking in the city and heights 
 to her taste on the mountains around it. 
 Schuylkill River sang the epithalamium 
 of that bridal, for the intended pause of a 
 day was prolonged to many weeks. Such 
 are the arts of this poet-river to retain 
 those who once listen and linger. 
 
 Reading is laid out on the chessboard 
 pattern of Philadelphia, recalling Quaker 
 formalism in the rectangularity of every 
 street-corner. The Friends settled it first, 
 indeed, and worshiped here in a log ca- 
 thedral so early as 1750. The early man- 
 ners were practical and simple. One 
 Daniel Boas was applied to for a plan 
 on which to build his house : he got a 
 forge-hammer and handed it to the ar- 
 chitect. " Build my house in the shape 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 31 
 
 of this,' 
 put up, 
 
 ' he said to the surprised functionary ; and the Forge-hammer House was 
 to surprise the neighbors and instruct posterity, exactly in the figure of a 
 
 blacksmith's tool. 
 
 Daniel Boas's forge-hammer has expanded since then in a 
 
 wonderful way. The city is now a forge of industry in many 
 
 different kinds, the best representative of 
 
 Its thrift bcmg the railroad company's car- 
 shops and locomotive-works. The car- 
 
 building shop is an enormous hall, big 
 
 enough for a whole city to dance in, yet 
 
 dedicated to work as fine in its finish as 
 
 the joiner\ of a woman's jewel-box. In 
 
 the locomotive-works you see the usual 
 
 LOWt-R CURDUN I LANh. 
 
 ■scene of impressive activity and clamor, 
 ■with the cylinders intended for mighty 
 •engines humbly submitting to be pared 
 into shape in a lathe ; with cavernous 
 boilers opening their rusty bowels to the 
 skill of the repairer ; monstrous ham- 
 mers falling like thunderbolts ; and 
 black dwarfs of machines, with iron 
 bones and refined motions, able to pare 
 steel into ribbons or to turn out a finish- 
 ed implement with one tap of a polished 
 finger-nail. The Philadelphia and Read- 
 ing railroad might be imagined as end- 
 ing in this city, but the town of Reading 
 is but the beginning of a career for it 
 and its score of branches : from hence 
 
 it sends out feelers — west, to the coal 
 country ; north, to the Lehigh River at 
 Allentown ; and southwardly, to the State 
 capital. In the western suburb of Read- 
 ing a very brilliant-looking terminus has 
 been built to receive these branch roads: 
 almost too ornamental for a railroad- 
 depot, the building spreads over the 
 ground in a triangle of curved galleries, 
 looking like a summer theatre, and pret- 
 tily carved and painted. 
 
 As we pass up the river from Reading 
 the farm-lands begin gradually to strug- 
 gle with the mountains, the latter getting 
 a final victory, with, of course, an ad- 
 vantage in the way of picturesqueness 
 
32 
 
 VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 Presently the railway pierces Mount Kit- 
 tatinny, and emerges at Port Clinton, a 
 town laid out in 1829. It is in the fork 
 of the Schuylkill and Little Schuylkill 
 Rivers — streams which rise not far apart 
 among the coal-hills, and describe two 
 great curves to meet at Port Clinton, 
 there uniting their arms full of moun- 
 tains, like some bold Titanic marauder 
 caught with les poiiimes du voisin. Port 
 Clinton, provided with an antique-look- 
 ing and wonderfully sketchable railway- 
 station, and a nursery of young ever- 
 greens in the foreground, looks up at the 
 hilltops and down into the double river 
 and torpid canal, rather idly lamenting 
 the day when railroads were not and the 
 canal was all in all. We are now com- 
 pletely in the toils of the mountains. 
 From this confluence of the Schuylkills, 
 away over to the opposite site of Cata- 
 wissa on the Susquehanna River, the 
 country is rolled into mountain-chains 
 like breakers on the sea-beach. The 
 Water-Gap of the Blue Mountain is just 
 below us. Several of the spurs of the 
 range show us their buttes, angular and 
 clearly profiled, with the river coiling be- 
 neath them, in a dozen miles from Port 
 Clinton. Then the giants of the Appa- 
 lachian ranks appear — the river is no 
 longer able to steal a passage across 
 their broken ends, but is turned sharply 
 
 down from between two parallel ridges 
 — and the railroad likewise ceases to 
 maintain its direct westward course, and 
 begins to penetrate the long valleys with 
 a series of branches, seeking for coal as 
 the fibres of a root will seek for nourish- 
 ment. This peculiar knot of streams, 
 valleys and road-junctions, twisting to- 
 gether under the shadow of mighty hills, 
 has its group of neighboring towns, like- 
 wise prone in the mountain-hollows— 
 Palo Alto, Schuylkill Haven, Mount Car- 
 bon, and especially Pottsville. 
 
 We found Reading antique and mem- 
 orable : the founding of it was a last 
 effort of the old Quaker rule pushed out 
 into the Indian wilderness. But 1824 
 came with its Argonauts ; the woods 
 were filled with seekers after that curious 
 black stone which people said would 
 burn ; the California of '49 was antici- 
 pated in Pennsylvania ; some pioneer 
 laid out in the western part of the State 
 the mushroom village which Dickens 
 saw afterward and described as " Eden '* 
 in Martin Chiizzlewit ; and here, at the 
 head of the Schuylkill, in the mania of 
 speculative fever, a city spurted into life 
 out of the fire of John Putt's smelting-fur- 
 nace. Two civilizations created the two 
 not distant towns — that, the mission of 
 Penn and the seventeenth century ; this, 
 the mission of Mammon and the nine- 
 
 LORBERRY JUNCTION. 
 
 teenth. Poet Moore, telling how much 
 he "knew by the smoke that so grace- 
 fully curled," had very little to tell : the 
 fires of a million chimneys were lying 
 
 latent in Schuylkill's mountain - cradle, 
 but it brought him no such report. 
 
 John Putt (or Pott) built Greenwood 
 Furnace in 1827, a coal-vein being re- 
 
VIGNETTES EROM THE SCnUYLKlLL VALLEY. 
 
 33 
 
 vealed in digging the foundation. The city which arose on 
 the site was called Putt's-ville, from his father, 
 Wilhelm Putt, who came to America in 1734, 
 in the ship St. Andrew, from Rotterdam. 
 Pottsville is still peopled \\ ith the de- 
 scendants of the famih , sonic of whom 
 grew rich by simpl) takmg land and 
 holding it for a rise 
 in value. It ^^ 
 
 is to be 
 
 «^ 
 
 VIKW hiEAR bkOOKSlDE. 
 
 notid as a singular fact that individuals 
 or private firms have not generally been 
 successful in the business of coal-mining. 
 The market is too uncertain, the strikes 
 among the workmen too capricious and 
 frequent, the various risks too damaging, 
 to be averaged with success on a small 
 scale. Tne oottom of the sea is not 
 strewn so thickly with sunken argosies 
 as these mountains with the wrecks 
 of private fortunes. The individuals 
 who have made money were those who 
 sold land to speculators, but the small 
 3 
 
 mincis have gone 
 undci, and monop- 
 oh alone seems to 
 be competent to 
 deal with such vast 
 machinery and such 
 armies of turbulent 
 operatives. 
 The description of this 
 business, however, is not 
 our affair this month : we aim simply 
 to lead the reader through the gently- 
 rising channels of Schuylkill Valley, 
 and show him what admirable tourist- 
 routes the anthracite country will yield. 
 The trade of a place like Pottsville is 
 only suited to our present purpose 
 when it is so old a story as to be a rem- 
 iniscence. As Moore was too early in 
 the field to be in anywise conscious of 
 coal, let us hear the humorist Joseph C. 
 Neal, who was present in the full hurly- 
 burly of the mining excitement. Here 
 are some of his sentences : 
 
 "In the memorable year to which 1 
 allude rumors of fortunes made at a 
 blow, and competency secured by a turn 
 of the fingers came whispering down the 
 Schuylkill. Every speculator had his 
 town laid out, and many of them had 
 
34 
 
 VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 scores of towns. They were, to be sure, 
 located in the pathless forests, but the 
 future Broadways and Pall Malls were 
 marked upon the trees ; and it was an- 
 ticipated that the time was not far dis- 
 tant when the bears, deer and wild-cats 
 would be obliged to give place, and take 
 the gutter side of the belles and beaux 
 
 of the new cities. The other branch of 
 our adventurers turned their attention to 
 mining. To it they went, boring the 
 mountains, swamping their money and 
 themselves. The hills swarmed with 
 them, they clustered like bees about a 
 hive, but not a hope was realized. The 
 justices did a fine business. Capiases, 
 
 SUSQUEHANNA RIVER NEAR HERNDON. 
 
 securities and bail-pieces became as fa- 
 miliar as your gaiter. The farce was 
 over, and the farce of T/ie Devil to Pay 
 was the afterpiece. There was but one 
 step from the sublime to the ridiculous, 
 and Pottsville saw it taken." 
 
 The Pottsville of to-day, a town of 
 great elegance, has not its guide-boards 
 set up in an impenetrable forest. Every- 
 thing shows wealth, ambition and those 
 
 exacting tastes that come in the train of 
 satisfied ambition. The goods in the 
 stores are choice and high-priced : each 
 building erected is handsomer than the 
 last. The streets, climbing actively up 
 from the river, are sometimes picturesque, 
 always gay and bright. Sharp Moun- 
 tain drives its vast obtuse wedge into the 
 sky behind the town. Henry Clay on a 
 column, with a whole hill for a pedestal 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 35 
 
 looks amiably over the comfortable pop- 
 ulation of old-line Whigs who roost and 
 burrow in the fat offices and places of 
 the town. Fine roads for driving wind 
 back among the hills, with superb turns 
 of view, with dusky villages of miners, 
 and a breadth and choice of mining-sce- 
 nery that makes the whole of this strange 
 trade unwind before the visitor like a 
 drama. There is a little theatre in the 
 city, with a fair stage for the fortuitous 
 concert-troupe or star. Hotel-life is at 
 the level of the highest dreams of the 
 commercial traveler. There is at least 
 one preacher of conspicuous power. 
 Dr. Smiley of the Second Presbyterian 
 Church — a man with a true gift of ex- 
 temporaneous eloquence, a sort of White- 
 field with the hills for his amphitheatre. 
 It is a strange surprise to find such a 
 city, an edifice of refinement, culture and 
 brightness, reposing on the shoulders of 
 
 the grimy miners, who are its true cary- 
 atides and supports. 
 
 Mount Carbon, a continuation of Potls- 
 ville, is celebrated only for its hotel, a 
 house owned by the railroad company, 
 and the scene of many a noble feast at 
 which the corporation was the entertain- 
 er. There are rare wines in stock here, 
 chosen by experts in such matters, and 
 the kitchen is adorned by the genius 
 of cooks worthy of Apicius's service : 
 this house of call, the "Mansion," is 
 large and handsome, making a good 
 effect as it stands like a carving in alto 
 relief against the green face of Sharp 
 Mountain. Not far away are the hy- 
 draulics of Tumbling Run, where there 
 is a pretty lake, with dams to feed the 
 canal, the waste water escaping over the 
 rocks in such a way as to form a fine 
 cascade. 
 
 It is easily understood that the laying 
 out of railway- 
 levels among 
 these intricate 
 valleys must 
 be a difficult 
 feat of civil en- 
 gineering. Let 
 the tourist 
 thank the en- 
 gineer with all 
 his soul, then, 
 as he pene- 
 trates by his 
 aid to ravines 
 almost inac- 
 cessible by oth- 
 er means, and 
 grasps in a 
 day's idling a 
 quantity of dis- 
 tant points that 
 Natty Bumpo 
 could hardly 
 compass in a 
 month with his leathern legs. The com- 
 merce of anthracite seems hereabouts to have 
 acted in a kind conspiracy with the desires 
 of the sight-seer, for nowhere is there a grace- 
 ful opening in the view but a road seems to 
 lead straight up to it, while there is generally 
 provided for the foreground a colossal coal- 
 breaker heavily dusted with sooty powder. 
 
36 
 
 VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 presenting the general semblance of 
 Cleopatra's needle hung with black vel- 
 vet, and capital for throwing off the dis- 
 tance into aerial perspective. 
 
 We will leave the Schuylkill now, with 
 the graceful image of Pottsville reflected 
 in it, in order to give the artist's pencil a 
 short excursion amongst the Appalachian 
 valleys ; reserving the privilege, howev- 
 er, of returning to Pottsville as a centre 
 of movement or pivotal focus, and also 
 tliat of taking up the river, if we shall 
 so choose, and going backward with it 
 quite to its fountain-head. Having en- 
 joyed a long succession of river-scenes, 
 let us turn to the panorama of the moun- 
 tains as mining industry has opened it 
 out to our approach. From Pottsville, 
 then, we may take the locomotive over 
 a quantity of short mining-roads which 
 burrow away the coal-hills, or can com- 
 mand a series of feeders which go out 
 from the same centre with a certain par- 
 allelism, like the prongs of a fork, to 
 touch various coal-depots on the Susque- 
 hanna, such as Herndon (a small water- 
 side town below Sunbury) and Dauphin. 
 Westward lie Ashland, Shamokin and 
 the bold opening of Ravino Gap. Near 
 Ashland you are carried over the Upper 
 and Lower Inclined Planes of Gordon, 
 two uphill inclinations of the road oc- 
 curring close together. The Schuylkill 
 region employs four of these planes, 
 similar in operation to that which has 
 become so celebrated at Mauch Chunk 
 in ascending Mount Pisgah. The sen- 
 sation of being caught by the little "bar- 
 ney" engine which starts up behind you 
 at the foot of the hill, and pushes you 
 smartly up the rope, is quite odd and 
 magical to a stranger. The Lower Gor- 
 don Plane, represented in the cut, carries 
 you a distance of 4755 feet, in which dis- 
 tance you have risen 404 feet, and are 
 1206 feet above tide; the neighboring 
 Upper Plane, somewhat shorter in length, 
 takes you up to a still greater altitude, 
 leaving you 1519 feet above tide ; so that, 
 although on the rail all the time, you 
 have the height of a very respectable 
 mountain beneath you. Bearing in a 
 more southerly direction, an excursion 
 may be taken that will unveil a variety 
 
 of wonders, both mechanical and natural. 
 Leave Pottsville, take up its neighbor 
 Mount Carbon and Mount Carbon's 
 neighbor Schuylkill Haven, then double, 
 and proceed by the Mine Hill road, a 
 branch originally built independently, 
 now absorbed by the Reading Company. 
 You get the bold vase-like hollow and 
 the swimming distances of Germantown 
 Valley and Mine Hill Gap. At Cressona 
 you remark the monumental buildings in 
 stone put up by the Mine Hill road when 
 itwas an independent corporation. Lor- 
 berry Junction commands a fine valley- 
 view, but it is eclipsed by the neighbor 
 view of Brookside, across Williams Val- 
 ley. Here, while the disgorging mines 
 pile up their dust-heaps all around you, 
 and the dull mules clamber to the lofty 
 breakers with their loads of coal, the 
 eye commands a distance which is full 
 of enchantment. The direction of the 
 valley is so straight that you are sure 
 you can see all the way down to the Sus- 
 quehanna River at Harrisburg. Along 
 the vista the inequalities of the parallel 
 mountain-walls jut out one beyond the 
 other, forming accents of fainter and 
 fainter blue, in an interminable perspec- 
 tive, until everything faints in an horizon 
 of blinding azure and silver. In the 
 foreground, relieved in dark saliency 
 agajnst the dazzling vision, are the ears 
 of a mule and the profile of a dust-heap, 
 black as a coffin under a pall. It is a 
 painter's opportunity, for toil and vision, 
 the practical and the ideal, are most art- 
 fully blended. 
 
 In our next paper we shall have 
 something to say about the vicissitudes 
 of a miner's existence and of the coal- 
 mining industry, on which depend the 
 comfort and life of myriads each winter; 
 and, having got the reader completely 
 lost to the friendly light of day in the 
 deepest recesses of a mine, it will be our 
 business to get him out, and return him 
 to his friends with some novelty of route, 
 not, however, completely losing sight of 
 the exquisite Schuylkill. The object in 
 the present paper has been quite uncon- 
 nected with the special commerce of the 
 Reading road : we have undertaken a 
 vague relaxation of mind and matter, 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 37 
 
 not the toil of mines and mattocks. We 
 wished to demonstrate that, in its irre- 
 sponsible aspect of a mere tourist's route, 
 
 the valley of Schuylkill is full of historic 
 interest and pictorial beauty. 
 
 FALLS BRIDGE, SCHUYLKILL RIVER. 
 
 THE great carrier which moves the 
 passengers and the products of the 
 Schuylkill Valley — the Reading Railroad 
 — is no common organization. It is the 
 factor of two interests unique on the con- 
 tinent — the iron industry of Pennsylvania 
 and the anthracite commerce of the same 
 State. It thus happens that the corpora- 
 
 tion engaged in assisting the most un- 
 wieldy products known to commerce into 
 their proper place and relation with the 
 market is mixed in with the business of 
 manufacturing to a far greater degree 
 than is usual with a common carrier. 
 In fact, this organization is a manufac- 
 turer. It was in 1871 that it began to 
 
3« 
 
 VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 be a producer, buying ninety thousand 
 acres of coal-lands and preparing for the 
 smelting of iron on a great scale, the 
 road creating and taking all the stock in 
 an organization styled the Philadelphia 
 and Reading Coal and Iron Company. 
 
 It is both a porter and a workman. 
 Do you ask to see the porter ? — it shows 
 you its hands — half a million blackened 
 hands rolling twenty thousand tons of 
 iron per year at Reading, sculpturing the 
 coal-mountains into honeycomb or melt- 
 ing ore in giant furnaces into the most 
 precious of the metals : you are evident- 
 ly looking at a manufacturer. Do you 
 ask to see the manufacturer ? — this same 
 
 two-faced railroad corporation shows you 
 its wagons and its automaton teams, shows 
 the freight-trains reddened with iron ore, 
 shows the broken coal pouring down a 
 hundred mountain-sides into its cars as 
 incessantly as the sands in an hourglass, 
 and finally shows the heavy mineral scat- 
 tered to distant seaports over the unstal)le 
 Atlantic : you are beholding a simple 
 porter, it would seem. This porter was 
 measured in 1870, and proved to be sin- 
 gularly well supplied with muscles and 
 sinews : the Reading Railroad's cars and 
 rolling apparatus, placed end to end, 
 made a train fifty-five miles in length. 
 As a workman its exhibit could be stated 
 
 '^^^^'^'^il^.. 
 
 VIEW ON THE SUSQUEHANNA OPPOSnE CATAWIbSA 
 
 m an equally sensational way. Porter 
 and workman, it shows a singular clev- 
 erness in taking advantage of a perfect- 
 
 ly exceptional state of things, for no 
 other kinds of product than the great 
 Pennsylvania products would invite their 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 39 
 
 carrier to come in and lend a hand to 
 the work at fair wages. The company 
 is at once a passenger and tourist Hne, a 
 freight line, a coal and iron company, 
 
 and even a parcels-express company. 
 It may be said to relieve the moun- 
 tains of their loads of imprisoned fire, 
 as Hercules relieved Atlas of the weight 
 
 M\iN\ iLi h \\ \ri r c \p 
 
 of the Zodiac ; and it holds up for mor- 
 tals an endless zone of artificial sum- 
 mer full of that heat which mortals are 
 feigned to have stolen from Heaven. 
 ' It carries the tropics to our doors," says 
 Emerson, speaking of anthracite, and by 
 imphcation of the purveyor that provides 
 us with it. 
 
 Its functions and disposition give this 
 line a rather odd figure on the map : you 
 would think of some miner, stunted and 
 distorted with lying in a narrow vein, 
 and showing a short trunk and sprawling 
 limbs. The " Philadelphia and Reading 
 
 Railroad," if its extent were defined by 
 its name, would be only a matter of a 
 hundred miles long, for that is the dis- 
 tance between the two cities ; but wait 
 until the milliped exhibits all its feelers. 
 The Reading corporation, adding what 
 it leases or controls to what it owns, dis- 
 plays seven hundred and twenty -five 
 miles of road ; and over all this length, ar- 
 ranged in almost mnumerable branches, 
 go spinning the active coal and iron with 
 involuntary alertness, as the cannon-ball 
 circulates over the undulating muscles of 
 an acrobat's arms and breast. 
 
40 
 
 VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 It was in 1858 that the managers in- 
 augurated their poUcy of absorbing the 
 lateral roads : they began with the Leb- 
 anon Valley Railroad, as it is called, a 
 branch which extends from Reading 
 through Lebanon to Harrisburg, and en- 
 tered into competition with the Pennsyl- 
 vania Central in the rather greasy task 
 of dumping Philadelphia politicians into 
 Harrisburg by a line some eight miles 
 longer than the Central's. This we men- 
 tion, not because we are going to under- 
 take the list of our company's acquisi- 
 tions, with the dates, but because the 
 branch in question will afford us a jolly 
 excursion under the pretence of strictly 
 attending to the business of this article. 
 It will take us to iron at the wonderful 
 Cornwall Ore -Banks, but it will afford 
 us, too, a fine escapade, clear away from 
 the Schuylkill Valley, through Pennsyl- 
 vania Dutchland, to Harrisburg and the 
 Susquehanna. Having thus tasted the 
 sweets of truancy, it is our plan to fly up 
 the Susquehanna River, for a delightful 
 distance, to a point on the Catawissa 
 
 road, and by this romantic path descend 
 again upon the coal-fields and the Schuyl- 
 kill. The detour is a little bold, since 
 the latter river and its coal were to be 
 the special subjects of our present paper; 
 but a road with so many branches as the 
 Reading invites to this kind of faithless 
 ness ; and we mean to be short, and at- 
 tend to the miners in a very little time. 
 
 This is our best scheme, indeed, for 
 grasping the advantages of the Reading 
 road in all their breadth. We are going 
 to take the two stems of a Y. The one 
 branch is the Lebanon Valley, the other 
 is the Catawissa : Reading City lies at 
 the fork, the Reading Railroad proper is 
 the stem ; and in the angle of that Y is 
 embraced all that we are going to con- 
 sider of the coal production of Schuvl- 
 kill Valley. 
 
 We leave Reading, then, the technical 
 extremity of the parent-road, and begin 
 to travel due west through the gently- 
 rolling farm-country of Berks and Leba- 
 non counties. It is not romantic, like 
 the valley of Schuylkill ; nevertheless, a 
 
 RAVINE AND HEAVY GRADE NEAR KRACKVILLE. 
 
 I 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 41 
 
 ^ <**ji^«-,^ 
 
 long continuous eminence 
 called South Mountain bears 
 up below us, and keeps in 
 sight like a rampart as we 
 trace it from the car -win- 
 dows, separating us from 
 Conestoga Creek and its affluents, and 
 from the region of Ephrata and Lan- 
 caster. The towns lying on either side 
 our path are half or wholly German 
 in name, sometimes perpetuating fondly 
 the homesickness of those who called 
 them after well -beloved spots in the 
 Fatherland. Heidelberg, Womelsdorf, 
 Wohlebcrtown lie around us, and farther 
 off in these same counties are Naftzinger- 
 ville, Rehrersburg, Strausstown and Mil- 
 bach, which last doubtless was originally 
 Miihlbach. The people who come into 
 the cars from the small stations are as 
 strange-looking as if from the antipodes. 
 Two or three women enter, gently laugh- 
 ing and talking among themselves in 
 unknowable language, but for all their 
 gayety looking as if they have great 
 need of protection from the wiles of a 
 corrupt world. They are dressed in nar- 
 row suits of black and deep tunnel-like 
 
 bonnets, homemade — bonnets black as 
 Erebus, with an enormous cape falling 
 over the shoulders, slats of cardboard 
 sewn into the stuff so as to form the cyl- 
 inder, and the crown gathered neatly to a 
 button in the centre. This kind of bon- 
 net shades the rosy, laughing face. One 
 of them carries a boy, a chubby, apple- 
 cheeked, blond-headed Teuton, in whose 
 pretty lips the outlandish Pennsylvania 
 Dutch is greatly softened, and whose 
 suit of clothes has a general look of 
 having been made by Japhet's wife in 
 the ark. To protect the child and its 
 mother sits a simple, square-bodied man 
 of forty, with the red, innocent face of 
 a boy, a mop of touzled yellow hair, 
 apple -wood buttons and homemade 
 clothes : he is more German than a Ber- 
 liner, for he and his have been away 
 from German progress for centuries, 
 sticking like stocks where they were 
 
42 
 
 VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 planted. The goods of this family are 
 carried in sacks resembling meal-bags. 
 Other passengers of the same general 
 appearance enter — one an old man 
 whose gray locks tumble over his shoul- 
 ders, whose long beard wags like a goat's, 
 and whose principal garment is an all- 
 embracing army overcoat. These elder 
 personages wear felt hats, drab or brown, 
 with very wide brims curling up evenly 
 all around, and seeming to have been 
 turned in lathes or run into moulds like 
 car-wheels. These are the mild Penn- 
 sylvania Germans. They are about as 
 aggressive as rabbits ; yet as a rabbit will 
 always find some frog or other to be afraid 
 of it, so these families of the Palatinate 
 caused apprehension, when they came 
 over a hundred and fifty years ago, to 
 the wary and unwarlike Quakers. "We 
 have of late," wrote James Logan, the 
 secretary of the province, in 1717, "a 
 great number of Palatines poured in 
 
 upon us without any recommendation or 
 notice, which gives the country some 
 uneasiness." They never made much , 
 trouble, however, in the pacific commu- 
 nity. They simply took to fertilizing the 
 English language with their own, pro- 
 ducing in the end that wonderful patois 
 which now distinguishes the region. 
 These are the trustful beings who still 
 vote for General Jackson, and who, be- 
 lieving that Governor Ritner perpetually 
 wields the sceptre of the State, sing com- 
 plimentarily, 
 
 Der Joseph Ritner is der mon 
 As unser Staat rigeren Icon ! 
 
 They are the natural enemies of prog- 
 ress : even coal, the theme of all our 
 present panegyric, the beneficent and 
 indispensable, they look at with some 
 distrust, as if it were a gift from the pow- 
 ers below. The warmth to which this 
 primitive race gives its truest welcome is 
 the natural heat of the sun, the halo of 
 
 MAHANOY PLANi. (LOOKING DOWNJ 
 
 gently-stealing mildness that comes in 
 spring, when the Pennsylvania peasant- 
 girl may pause at her ploughing in the 
 
 mild weather, and listen to a few tender 
 words from her blue-coated farmer-lad. 
 A country Sappho of the race. Miss Ra- 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 43 
 
 hel Bann of \ ork count) 
 makes this naive little con 
 fession resembling at once 
 a yawn and a smile 
 
 Well, anyhow, wann's Frueyoh'r 
 
 kummt. 
 Bin ich gepleased first-rate ! 
 
 Some of these communities are very 
 ascetic. When the Brethren established 
 themselves at Ephrata in 1730, they first 
 lived as solitaries : then they put up their 
 wooden monasteries, shingled to the 
 ground. The sisters occupied one large 
 convent, the brothers another. Here are 
 to be still seen the apparatus of morti- 
 fication — the narrow cells with a plank 
 for a bed, the doors just the size of a 
 coffin-lid, the halls so straitened that two 
 persons cannot pass. The large Saals 
 are almost completely papered with the 
 FractKr-schriften, or texts in penman- 
 ship, in which pictorial art vies with in- 
 genious chirography to explain the path 
 to heaven. 
 
 Presently the Snitz Creek winds down 
 from the iron hills, and makes a turn 
 close to where the railroad stretches 
 along. This is the site of Lebanon. As 
 we approach Lebanon through the thriv- 
 ing farms, many a 
 
 Mennonist his bearded chin 
 Leans o'er the gate 
 
 of the dooryard, and several of them 
 are bending their unkempt heads over 
 the German newspapers in the Lebanon 
 hotel. They sit round the table d'hote 
 in their faded homespun dress, and there 
 
 TUNNEL COLLIERY. 
 
 they partake, with more polished guests, 
 of the characteristic fare belonging to 
 the region. The old German style of 
 serving dinner is to set a vast number 
 of viands in little saucers contemporane- 
 ously before the eater. Fourteen platters 
 were in front of us at once when we last 
 dined at Lebanon, and the same number 
 before each sitter at the long table. The 
 plate of crimson beef formed the central 
 luminary, around which a dozen vege- 
 tables and side-dishes performed their 
 orbit; among them, it is unnecessary to 
 say, the Pennsylvanian smeer-case and 
 kohl-slah and apple-bititer. 
 
 What has brought us to Lebanon is 
 the Cornwall iron deposits, the great 
 metallic curiosities of the State. Here 
 are three mountains made of iron and 
 lying close together. They are inferior 
 knobs of the great South Mountain, an 
 elevation which stretches in a straight 
 line from the Schuylkill to the Susque- 
 hanna, and they lie six miles out from 
 Lebanon. They are respectively called 
 Grassy Hill, Middle Hill and Big Hill : 
 the iron is quite on the surface, forming 
 a deposit of three hundred and twenty- 
 five feet depth in the higher parts, and 
 thinning out on the edges of the hills. The 
 iron mass covers a hundred acres, and, 
 though it has been worked for more than 
 
44 
 
 VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 a century, seems almost inexhaustible, as 
 the deeper treasure remains untouched. 
 It rests upon trap-rock, the division be- 
 tween the two being so sharp that you 
 could slip in a visiting-card, which would 
 be touched on one side by the pure trap 
 and on the other by the almost pure iron. 
 The lumps of pure richness which stud 
 the mass — black nodules about the size 
 of a skull, and known as negro-heads — 
 are almost unadulterated iron, only three 
 parts in seven being of foreign matter. 
 Many of these negro-heads have the prop- 
 erties of loadstone, being of the species 
 of ore called magnetic, and one of them 
 will sustain a string of six tenpenny nails 
 hanging one to the other. The removal 
 of this rich dirt is the simplest thing con- 
 ceivable : it is not mined, nor even quar- 
 ried, but is merely shoveled like garden- 
 mould from the hilltop, and carried by 
 trams to the furnaces that gape for it 
 in the valley below. The ascent of the 
 principal mount, now largely shoveled 
 away, is very interesting. A neat little 
 dummy engine, provided with seats and 
 elegant cushions, is puffing away at the 
 base : its benches are inclined at an 
 angle with the wheels, like the cars that 
 go up Mount Washington, so that the 
 steep slope of the road is corrected and 
 the passenger sits on a level base. The 
 railway is laid out in a perfect spiral, 
 winding around the symmetrical dome 
 of the hill in convolutions as regular as 
 those of a snail-shell : you fancy your- 
 self ascending Dante's hill of Purgatory 
 — a translation in which the part of the 
 fair Beatrice is played by the obliging 
 superintendent of the excavations. Noth- 
 ing can well be stranger than the sensa- 
 tion of flying up this spiral with the speed 
 of steam, like a morning lark ascending 
 to Heaven's gate, with the landscape be- 
 neath returning upon itself as you com- 
 plete each concentric circle. It would 
 puzzle the best topographer to tell east 
 from west after repeating these gyrations 
 again and again and resting at last on 
 the summit of the mount, with the peace- 
 ful Lebanon farm-landscape beneath, and 
 a circle of great furnace-chimneys wav- 
 ing their plumes of smoke against the 
 background. The workmen are busy 
 
 with pick and shovel loading into small 
 cars the friable ore. Intermixed with the 
 iron are various mineral curiosities, the 
 most valuable of which is copper. The 
 combinations of copper afford the bold- 
 est and most brilliant colors, from pure 
 
 ultramarine blue to the fresh flash of the 
 virgin copper itself, which sometimes lies 
 pressed in the rock-fissures in brilliant 
 leaf-like plates, as if a sprig of Hercules' 
 golden bough had been laid away by 
 Nature to dry in her great /tortus siccus. 
 A fine cabinet of minerals embellishes 
 the superintendent's office in his residence 
 below, embracing all the ores of copper 
 and iron, with the various geological ac- 
 companiments which occur with them. 
 
 In the six-mile drive between the Corn- 
 wall Ore-Banks and Lebanon we have 
 pointed out the various farming improve- 
 ments, including the grand plantations 
 of members of the Coleman family, who 
 own the Banks. These millionaires are 
 fanciers of rare cattle, and on their farms 
 we see the flocks of Southdowns, the rare 
 breeds of swine, the Alderney cows — 
 themselves almost solid mines of cream 
 — and, handsomest of all, the Holstein 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 45 
 
 bulls, large animals with coats of gleam- 
 ing black satin, except for the saddle of 
 pure white, which hangs over the back 
 
 like a rich and sharply-defined coverlet 
 of ermine or samite. The city of Leba- 
 non is of brick, formal, old-fashioned 
 and evidently comfortable, and paved in 
 some places with a sort of octagonal tile 
 made cheaply enough by simply running 
 the refuse slag of the iron-furnaces into 
 moulds conveniently laid beneath the 
 vent. Strange to say, however, the rage 
 of bric-a-brac hunting has invaded 
 this sleepy citadel : the settlers of old 
 German origin are known to possess 
 quaint treasures in the way of furni- 
 ture, ravishing eight-day clocks pos- 
 sibly made by Schwelgue, and del- 
 icate services of Dresden : there is 
 therefore a mute anxiety and compe- 
 tition when vendues of household fur- 
 niture are announced ; and we know a 
 happy connoisseur who recently had 
 the felicity of paying twelve dollars 
 for a delicious Dutch clock, and then 
 eighty dollars for the "tinkering of 
 it up," as the jeweler said. 
 
 But we must not linger too long over 
 this old road — a road which, running 
 parallel with the Conestoga, has be- 
 guiled us into the leisurely mood of 
 a Conestoga wagon. It is the merest 
 
 parenthesis for us, only belonging to 
 our subject through the pig iron from 
 Cornwall which loads its freight - cars. 
 We proceed to Harrisburg, where we 
 have the satisfaction of seeing the 
 legislators of the State presenting their 
 boot-soles in semicircular rows to John 
 Hancock's chair as they — the soles — 
 repose upon the members' desks and 
 Hancock's seat reposes in the focus, 
 with the Speaker in it. There, leav- 
 ing the low gravel-banks, we meet the 
 Susquehanna, a river as broad as a 
 lake and as flat as a gutter when there 
 is not a freshet. The bridge across it 
 is so immensely long and so carefully 
 enclosed that to cross it is to pass a 
 little eternity without sense of advance 
 or motion, like walking in the tread- 
 mill of a threshing-machine. For this 
 privilege you give a nickel to the toll- 
 taker and a currency note to the toll- 
 taker's child, who thus multiplies the 
 family perquisites in the name of 
 playfulness, and who from long use 
 receives his present quite callously and 
 as a matter of business. 
 
 From Harrisburg, by borrowing the 
 services of the Northern Central Rail- 
 way, we ascend the bank of the Susque- 
 hanna so as to attain a point considcra- 
 
 SOCIAL CHAT. 
 
 bly off to the north, and place ourselves 
 in the limits of the Catawissa road, fa- 
 
46 
 
 VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 mous for its scenery. The transit up the 
 Susquehanna is a hne from one point to 
 the other of our Y, previously illustrated. 
 We pass the mouth of the Juniata, a 
 stream wandering down through a coun- 
 try rich in iron : opposite this embou- 
 chure is Dauphin, one of the river-ports 
 to which the Reading Railroad sends out 
 a prong. Similar points at the ends of 
 similar tines of the fork are Millersburg 
 and Herndon, illustrated by us in our 
 June number. Then, at Sunbury, the 
 Northern Susquehanna branch is cross- 
 ed, and we soon gain Milton, a neat, 
 fresh-looking town looking out through 
 its brilliant windows upon the islands of 
 the Susquehanna's West Branch, upon 
 which it lies. Milton is most attractive 
 in sumrper, the service at Huth's "River- 
 side House" is complete and elegant, 
 and there can be no doubt that Milton 
 as a watering-place will soon rival the 
 neighboring attractions of Williamsport, 
 now almost overrun with custom. 
 
 At this point we take the Catawissa 
 Railroad, a branch controlled by the 
 Reading, and step up into the engineer's 
 caboose to enjoy that gentleman's com- 
 pany and the full magnificence of the 
 landscape. Our course now bends east- 
 ward. We pass Danville, an iron-man- 
 ufacturing town, and Rupert, a junction 
 whence, by the Lackawanna road, we 
 might reach Wilkesbarre and the Arca- 
 dian charms of Wyoming. Then the 
 grandeur of the spectacle begins. We 
 cross the Susquehanna North Branch, 
 and find the town of Catawissa set like a 
 punctuation-point to mark the entrance 
 of Catawissa Creek. From the hill be- 
 hind this old burgh Thomas Moran once 
 sketched and painted an enchanting 
 scene — the creek, in sight for fifteen 
 miles, winding to meet the river through 
 ravines embroidered with the dyes of an 
 American autumn. The junction of river 
 and stream is here a superb scenic nu- 
 cleus. Nature, after running the thread of 
 a more narrow and continuous landscape 
 drama, here suspends the plot and lets 
 fall a superb drop-curtain, painted with 
 splendor and romance, which detains the 
 spectator for a long while in delight and 
 with no wish to proceed. She is an art- 
 
 ful stage-manager, and knows well when 
 to carry forward her audience, and when 
 to give them pause. The bluff below 
 
 MOUTH OF COAL-MINh. 
 
 the town, two hundred feet high, com- 
 mands the groves of Catawissa Island, 
 the long diorama of the river, the old 
 stone-abutted county bridge, the railway 
 bridge, the North Branch Canal and the 
 banks shaded with verdure. As we reach- 
 ed Catawissa on our last visit the train 
 was overtaken by a petulant spring storm, 
 soon over, but angry, and accompanied 
 with the first lightning of the season. 
 The clouds darkened the Catawissa ra- 
 vine like the approach of night, and the 
 rumble of stray thunders accompanied 
 the roar of the train reflected from the 
 sides of the valley. The mountain-tops, 
 hidden in the racing clouds, were con- 
 cealed or imperfectly seen, and took on 
 from the finishing touches of imagina- 
 tion a character absolutely Alpine. The 
 stream below, dark-brown in hue, was bor- 
 dered on each side with a hard, tense line 
 of foam, like the froth on grinning and 
 savage lips : we could not hear the roar 
 coming up from it, but the report was 
 painted, as it were, in its sharp wavelets 
 and the quick jets of its spray. The 
 enormous pines rocked in the storm, and 
 rained from their green eaves into the 
 stream — shed over shed of dark ever- 
 green branches, roofing the hills to theii 
 summits, and from their curved ends 
 casting down their tributary streams like 
 gutter-spouts. Through this darkness 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 47 
 
 and tempest and solemn privacy of the 
 precipices our careless locomotive rattled 
 on like an intruder. The curved flight 
 around the sides of the hills was doubly 
 impressive in such a dimness of the air. 
 Everything was crooked and tormented : 
 it was always easy to see the rear part 
 of our own train bending around behind 
 us and apparently chasing us. The very 
 tunnels were curved in plan. The lines 
 of the rail, bright with wet, glistened like 
 the bended figures of geological strata 
 as we passed through the cuttings. The 
 storm and the confusion for a while in- 
 creased, and were perhaps not less im- 
 pressive from the presence of the dart- 
 ing and twisting train, which described 
 among the incessant lightnings the fig- 
 ure af a snapping whiplash. At length 
 Mainville was reached, and the storm 
 rolled away with grotesque suddenness 
 to let us see the outlines of Mainville 
 Gap. Less grand than Lehigh or Dela- 
 ware Gap, that of Mainville still shows 
 an enjoyable scene. It gives a highly- 
 cultivated valley-view, seen through a 
 vase of hills. The scene from the rail- 
 road bridge (a very long one), showing 
 
 the McCauley and Nescopeck Mountains 
 in the distance, is also very beautiful. 
 
 Between Mainville and Beaver there 
 is afforded a very imposing and savage 
 view from Stranger's Hollow. It is of a 
 profound mountain-gorge, with the dark 
 Catawissa seen far below as it lashes, 
 chafing, over its rocky channel. This 
 scene is especially wild, and the signs of 
 man's presence are almost wanting, save 
 for the track of the railway coiling and 
 clinging in mid -air between the rude 
 stream and the shaggy summits of the 
 mountains. Approaching the curve at 
 Spring Hollow, there is unfolded a double 
 valley, formed by a minor chain of hills 
 protruding through the valley from Sum- 
 mit Tunnel to this spot. It is here that 
 the mountains reach their greatest eleva- 
 tion ; the road shoots from view to view 
 of the noblest hill-scenery ; an unwind- 
 ing endless diorama is presented, with 
 incessant vistas through the mighty cra- 
 dles of the hills, and a giddy pathway 
 ever returning upon itself and tracing 
 high above the water its aerial orbits for 
 the meteor of the railway train. The 
 cabins of the farmers, primitive and 
 wooden as those of prairie settlers, are seen 
 thiough opcnmgs m the pines or through flut- 
 ♦cimg frames made by the branches of the 
 mountam birch Some of the lower hills, com- 
 pletely cleared of foiest, have been cultivated 
 to the summit, the fences scoring the natural 
 protuberance of the knoll, and 
 L^^f- __ lookmg, to compare great things 
 
 with small, like the intersections 
 in a towering mound of soap- 
 bubbles. The wildncss of tlio 
 
 -_Ji — 
 
 FACE OF BREAKER. 
 
48 
 
 VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 black 
 
 ness of 
 
 the en 
 
 trance 
 
 the tunnel. In so 
 
 pure and sweet a 
 
 cup 
 does Nature give foith 
 the water at which pres- 
 ently a whole city comes 
 and drinks. The load 
 now commences to make 
 its descent toward com- 
 monplace, but does not 
 yet begin to lose its sa\- 
 age character. Just aftci 
 passing this spot, leaving 
 the bright and staring 
 baldness characteristic of 
 mountain - summits, the 
 track plunges into the 
 dark, counsel -keeping 
 shadows of an American 
 forest preserved in all its wildness. 
 Great bastions of conglomerate rock 
 crown the mountain-top, and a litter of 
 giant boulders encumbers its base, over 
 which the lichens weave their faded 
 tapestries. Pines, running more to stem 
 than to leaves, and lifting high their 
 skeleton arms, watch and whisper over 
 all. It is about the last rumor of prim- 
 itive vagabondage. In a little time the 
 road threads a short tunnel, makes a 
 junction at Quakake Valley, winds 
 around the side of a huge hill, and then 
 presents us at Tamaqua, where the moun- 
 tains are dead mountains of black coal- 
 dust, environing the whole landscape 
 with mourning piles as melancholy as 
 the Pyramids. 
 
 By the acquisition of the Catawissa 
 road, which was leased in perpetuity two 
 years ago, the Reading Railroad justifies 
 its claims to be considered one of the 
 
 scene, however, only increases until the mountain-stations 
 
 of Raiicks and Ringtown and Girard are left behind, and 
 
 'II the summit of the pass is reached. Here the Little 
 
 Schuylkill River has its birth, affording a pretty 
 
 vignette. A structure of rough masonry on the 
 
 west side of the road indicates the point where 
 
 the baby river comes bubbling forth from its 
 
 dark matiix m the hills: the waters fall 
 
 over pebbles and gravel among the fern, 
 
 and glance swiftly away to toil over 
 
 their long miles of travel before 
 
 joining the Delaware. Embow- 
 
 eied in deep-green hazel bushes 
 
 and dark pines, the spring 
 
 j- looks sufficiently romantic, 
 
 while a mountain -spur, 
 
 wild with c 1 i f f s and 
 
 rocks, lies off to the 
 
 eastward in clear 
 
 = - illumination. 
 
 contrasting 
 
 with the 
 
 sharp 
 
 COAL SHUTE, DUMl'Ek AND BREAKER. 
 
 most romantic tourist-routes in the coun- 
 try, even if the dazzling Schuylkill scenery 
 of its stem-portion did not make good 
 the title. Our reader now, at the expense 
 indeed of a grand detour, has brought 
 himself back into the coal-region once 
 more. Our old friend Putt's -ville or 
 Pottsville is not very far from Tamaqua, 
 and is closely allied with it through 
 natural seams and artificial interchange 
 of coal. We left the carboniferous region 
 to pick up iron at Lebanon and view the 
 river-sites of Harrisburg, Dauphin, Hern- 
 don, Sunbury and Milton : the wild val- 
 ley of the Catawissa has guided us round 
 again — none the less friendly to a good 
 coal-fire for our brief infidelity — to the 
 scenes of anthracite, and made a deposit 
 of us beside the grand coal-deposit. 
 
 The embodied tropics of the past, saved 
 up to create an artificial tropic for the 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 49 
 
 BOYS PICKING OUT SLATE AT ^ 
 THE SCREEN. 
 
 present — that is the defini 
 tion of coaL No geologist can tell how 
 many millenniums it has been preparing. 
 One of the cleanest of Nature's products, 
 far less mixed in its substance than most 
 of the metals, it has been laid by for us 
 between smooth leaves of slate rock — 
 leaves which thus became a vast natural 
 herbarium, filled with ferns which have 
 been pressed and dried almost to the 
 point of crystallization. The particular 
 form of this product which is the boast of 
 Pennsylvania is called anthracite from its 
 hardness. It is a luxury of the present 
 century. Since that day in 1812 when 
 the workmen at White and Hazard's 
 nail-works at the Falls of Schuylkill left 
 their furnaces in a rage because they 
 could not make the "black stones" burn, 
 and returned to find that during their 
 absence they had nearly melted down 
 the furnace doors, anthracite coal has 
 stood without a rival in the usage of this 
 nation. Its introduction to favor was 
 difficult. A i&\\ blacksmiths knew the 
 stone in the latter part of the eighteenth 
 century, and succeeded in igniting it 
 under the powerful blast from their bel- 
 lows : Obadiah Gore thus used it in 1768 
 in the valley of Wyoming, and Whet- 
 stone, another smith, employed it in 
 Schuylkill county in 1795. On the 
 Mauch Chunk Mountain the hunter 
 Philip Ginter stubbed his toe against a 
 stone of the coal when coming back dis- 
 aopointed from a bad day's chase, and 
 4 
 
 was afterward cheated of his 
 right of discovery. An ark 
 filled with the stones was 
 sent from that spot in 18 14 
 by Charles Miner to Phil- 
 adelphia. Just before, a 
 Schuylkill man, one Shoe- 
 maker, procured a quantity 
 of the strange substance 
 from a shaft sunk in a tract 
 he had bought on the Nor- 
 wegian, now known as the 
 Centreville Mines. This 
 enthusiast, who was a "col- 
 onel," loaded nine Cones- 
 toga wagons and took them 
 himself to Philadelphia 
 over the niountain - roads. 
 After several days' journey, 
 arriving in the capital, he was met as an 
 impostor, and obliged to give away most 
 of the coal. It was considered good to 
 pave the streets with, good to carve into 
 pretty inkstands and candlesticks, but it 
 was laughed to scorn as fuel until the 
 nailers found out how to intensify the 
 draught, and parlor grates with blow- 
 ers were invented for the citizens. It 
 was not until 1821 that the commerce 
 of anthracite reached a thousand tons 
 per year. Just half a century after that 
 it came to exceed fifteen millions of tons 
 per year, of which four millions came 
 from this Schuylkill region. Anthracite 
 for burning is a specialty of America, 
 where its cleanly, refined habits, free- 
 dom from "blacks," elegant and grace- 
 ful style of combustion, and other ad- 
 vantages, make it an indispensable lux- 
 ury. It is not unknown in Europe, but 
 is little employed for family use. Eng- 
 lish maltsters and iron-workers bring it 
 from the limited deposits in W^ales, Ire- 
 land, Staffordshire, Devonshire and near 
 Edinburgh. It is found mingled with 
 the bituminous fields of France, espe- 
 cially in the departments of Isere, the 
 High Alps, Gard, Mayenne and Sarth : 
 it is also mined in Belgium. As a rule, 
 however, this neat quintessence of com 
 fort is denied to the society of Europe, 
 while it glows in every negro's cabin and 
 Irish navvy's hut of this country. 
 
 The best way to indulge in a prowl 
 
^o 
 
 VIGNETTES FRUAI THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 JUST ABOVK PORT CLINTON. 
 
 among the mines is to borrow, if possi- 
 ble, one of the directors' handsome en- 
 gines, employed by the officials of the 
 road — the paymasters, mining super- 
 intendents, managers, etc. If accident 
 directs us to the engine run by Ben the 
 Whistler, we shall have the advantage 
 of a good-natured, broad-faced compan- 
 ion, who was born for a nightingale, but 
 ran up into the altitude of a man before 
 he meant to : he executes " Down in a 
 coal-mine, underneath the ground" and 
 other appropriate melodies for ever and 
 ever without intermission, and frequently 
 whistles in his dreams. Ben's part of 
 the engine is hung round with litho- 
 graphs of vocal beauties, Nilsson, Patti 
 and others, who he thinks would be per- 
 fect if they only whistled ; but his finest 
 
 picture is of an Eastern odalisque lying 
 on a divan in a suit of unnaturally large 
 pearls, and exchanging ideas with her 
 most congenial parallel in the natural 
 kingdom, a talking parrot. The front 
 part of the directors' engine is a hand- 
 some room made of plate -glass, with 
 Brussels carpet and revolving chairs. 
 
 The engine, if we are on authenti- 
 cated terms with head-quarters, will run 
 out to meet us at any point. Suppose 
 we take it up at Tamaqua. It is the 
 privileged character on the road, the 
 "captain's gig" among less independent 
 craft. Nevertheless, it may not take the 
 pas of regular trains, and it will run most 
 smoothly if introduced so as just to fol- 
 low an express-train : if this cannot be 
 done, the engine must "wildcat it," or 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 51 
 
 run on luck, warned off every 
 few minutes by established trains, 
 shunted on to sidings by burly 
 freight lines, bumped by locomo- 
 tives advancing from behind, run 
 into in tunnels, scared by trains 
 advancing around a curve, or 
 wrecked and delivered over to the 
 embankments by a switch. 
 
 From Tamacjua we may take, 
 for the examination of the coal- 
 mines, either the straight road to 
 Pottsville or a neighboring and 
 parallel one called the East Ma- 
 hanoy, which leads through the 
 next valley to the town of Ash- 
 land and its neighborhood. By 
 either of these roads we are intro- 
 duced to the heart of the mining 
 operations, for the sidings coming 
 down from the mines branch out 
 from either of them as thick as 
 briers on a stem, and either of 
 them is an avenue laid out in the 
 midst of the coal. Close to the 
 neat and civilized - looking little 
 city of Ashland is the Tunnel 
 Mine, a vast excavation necessi- 
 tating the most ponderous machi- 
 nery and the most approved sys- 
 tems of ventilation and hydraul- 
 ics. This great shaft is deep and 
 almost perpendicular, having an 
 inclination of sixty degrees. To 
 pump out the water from the mine 
 two enormous "bull engines," driv- 
 ing plunger pumps, have been set 
 up, the cylinders of which en- 
 ■gines resemble huge artillery mor- 
 tars as they lean at an inclination 
 of forty-five degrees against their 
 supports. The water at the bot- 
 tom of this excavation has to be 
 brought up nine hundred feet 
 vertical lift, which gives the idea 
 of a great depth for an American 
 mine, though it would be thought 
 a trifle in the deep English col- 
 lieries. To reach Ashland, how- 
 ever, from Tamaqua, we pass a 
 number of interesting features on 
 the railroad, before any or all of 
 which our obedient vehicle will 
 take pleasure in stopping. The 
 
52 
 
 VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 STEAM COLLIER. 
 
 East JVIahanoy road, soon after start- 
 ing, penetrates a tunnel of thirty-eight 
 hundred feet. Frackville and St. Clair 
 are mining- towns halfway along to Ash- 
 land, filled with characteristic "opera- 
 tive" life — stamped all over with the 
 peculiar habits and needs of the delving 
 population. The engineering of the rail- 
 road hereabouts is every way peculiar, 
 a heavy grade (one hundred and seventy- 
 nine feet to the mile) occurring at Frack- 
 ville, and the Mahanoy Inclined Plane 
 requiring the services of a steel rope and 
 a "barney engine " to draw or lower the 
 railway trains. The working of the push- 
 er on one of these inclines is somewhat 
 similar to the apparatus employed to 
 hoist you out of the shaft of a mine, and 
 either operation would be best represent- 
 ed to the pure cockney mind by the fa- 
 miliar elevator of the cockney's favorite 
 hotel. The rope on an inclined plane, 
 however, travels a great deal nearer level 
 than the perpendicular one in a hotel- 
 lifter, and the difference is complicated 
 by the fact that a stout little engine starts 
 out of the gi-ound risrht behind vou at 
 
 the foot of the slope, butts against you 
 with its strong forehead, and lifts you in 
 triumph to the top of the hill, train, peo- 
 ple, freight and all : its mission over, it 
 sinks dumlDly into the ground, exit-ing 
 like a theatrical ghost. The "barney" 
 at Mahanoy Plane carries you a distance 
 of twenty-four hundred and ten feet, in 
 which distance you have risen a perpen- 
 dicular height of three hundred and fifty- 
 four feet, and are fourteen hundred and 
 seventy-eight feet above tide. 
 
 To explore a shaft is, for the stranger 
 properly introduced, a simple and civil 
 operation. Guided by the "inside boss" 
 or some other functionary, he walks 
 through the dark galleries, his feet in 
 the wet, his little oil-lamp in his hand, 
 staring at everything and not feeling 
 very wise. Only when his guide's back 
 is turned will the miners show their teeth 
 — that is to say, gather round him with 
 ferocious pleasantry — and make him 
 prisoner until he has paid his "footing," 
 or beer-money. The vast mme or col- 
 liery just mentioned, the "Tunnel," is a 
 fine representative specimen, but others 
 
VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 can be found that are not so wet and 
 where the walking is better. After all, 
 the impression is a vague one, and the 
 amateur, as he explores the galleries, 
 
 iiffi 
 
 feels that he is probably not looking par- 
 ticularly philosophical. Strangers who 
 have friends or influence inside the mines 
 sometimes go into a great number, mak- 
 
 ing it a point to seize the pick and per- 
 sonally quarry out a specimen of coal 
 from each slope they enter : it is a hun- 
 dred to one but they select a bit of slate, 
 which, blackened and 
 irregular, cannot be dis- 
 tinguished by an unpro 
 fessional. The lights in 
 the hats of the miners 
 twinkle like stars in little 
 groups, forming, as the 
 men work together in the 
 various benches, tempo- 
 rary Ursa Majors and 
 Orions against the black- 
 ness. The puddles and 
 trams at your feet are all 
 that your feeble light 
 gives you to see. You 
 march on and on, fol- 
 lowing the guide, with- 
 out much sense of mo- 
 tion. Losing your idea 
 of place, you imagine 
 you are again wandering 
 through the Catacombs 
 of St. Calixtus at Rome, 
 where the dust of Chris- 
 tian martyrs floats in the 
 air, and where you fol- 
 low the cicerone with 
 marvelous meekness, 
 knowing that to desert 
 him would be slow star- 
 vation and death. 
 
 Suddenly comes a 
 booming sound which 
 never was heard in the 
 cemetery of- St. Calixtus. 
 They have started a 
 blast : the fume of gun- 
 powder fills the air, and 
 the galleries are sudden- 
 ly made to seem more 
 infinitely long as this 
 smoke, reflecting the 
 lights like a vapor, gives 
 an idea of space or ex- 
 tent. Then the look of 
 things is like that of a 
 Russian bath, only a blacker one than 
 ordinary. It is an unbounded space of 
 mist, through which are moving human 
 silhouettes with outlines of yellow light. 
 
54 
 
 VIGNETTES FROM THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY. 
 
 You are warned by the guide of a pos- 
 sible collision : a mule and a car of coals, 
 or a mule and a dozen empty coal-cars, 
 are advancing upon you either out or in. 
 Gay little blackened boys, with 
 songs and jests, drive them. The 
 mule coming out with his tribute 
 of large coals marches straight to 
 the "breaker." This is the tall, 
 well -blackened wooden monu- 
 ment seen by travelers at Mauch 
 Chunk and all places of resort 
 among the coal-mines. It is a 
 simple thing in theory, but to 
 climb over its giddy machinery, 
 with a high gale blowing through 
 its elevated and open spaces, the 
 footing slippery and lubricated 
 with sliding coal-dust, and the 
 din of machinery confusing ev- 
 erything, is not a very simple 
 thing in practice. The coal, de- 
 livered at the top of the building, 
 is shot into a wonderful hopper, 
 armed at the bottom with the 
 grinding teeth of two frightful 
 wheels, which inter-revolve, and 
 are set thick with fangs a hun- 
 dred times worse than ever tor- 
 tured Saint Catherine. The great 
 lumps are broken by these into 
 bits of all sizes, and then fall 
 through a series of squirrel-cages, 
 as we may call them. The re- 
 volving cages are the screens, 
 which are placed at a great 
 height for the proper direction 
 of the next operation, and thus 
 necessitate the extreme loftiness 
 of the buildings. The coal rolls 
 from coarser to finer squirrel - 
 cages, from between whose wires 
 it slips down over inclined floors, 
 upon which sit boys and old men 
 picking out the slate. The seve- 
 ral operations are all movements 
 of natural gravitation, and to- 
 gether make needful buildings of 
 enormous height (and painful 
 flimsiness). 
 
 It is then immediately taken up by the 
 Reading Railroad in its capacity of coal- 
 merchant and loaded into cars, to collect 
 in a gre^ct bulk at Pottsville or its suburb. 
 
 Mount Carbon, to meet the forks of the 
 Schuylkills at Port Clinton, and thence 
 accompany the Schuylkill proper to Phila- 
 delphia, which it enters \>y crossing the 
 
 picturesque old bridge at the "Falls," 
 and makes its way over the northern 
 part of the city to the company's im- 
 mense Richmond wharves, known as 
 
FROM PHILADELPHIA TO BALTIMORE 
 
 55 
 
 " Port Richmond." Here it is distributed 
 by rail to any part of America or loaded 
 into the company's fleet of steam colliers ; 
 in which the commodity of coal, a rustic 
 and a dweller in the interior for some 
 millions of years, is taught, amidst the 
 confusion of a rolling keel and a pitching 
 
 hold, to prove how good a sailor it can 
 be. The uses of coal in our industries, 
 as evidenced in enormous iron - works 
 like those we picture — the two largest 
 rolling-mills in the country — are infinite, 
 but we have talked too long, and must 
 perforce dismiss the theme. 
 
 FROM PHILADELPHIA TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 VIEW OK THE SCHUYLKILL RIVER AND WEST PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 IN 1832 a few adventurous men ob- 
 tained a charter for a railroad from 
 Baltimore to Port Deposit : other char- 
 ters were granted by Delaware and 
 Pennsylvania in succeeding years, and 
 at last in 1838 all were consolidated as 
 the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Bal- 
 timore Railroad Company, and became 
 a through all-rail line, interrupted only 
 by the Susquehanna and some minor 
 water-courses, under one management, 
 beginning at Philadelphia and ending at 
 Baltimore. It struggled along, making 
 but little progress up to 185 1, when Mr. 
 Samuel M. Felton was brought from 
 Boston to assume the presidency. 
 
 Seeing the actual and future import- 
 
 ance of the line, some Eastern men 
 bought up the stock, put in the neces- 
 sary money and encouraged Mr. Felton 
 to begin an entire revolution in the road. 
 The road-bed was perfected and widen- 
 ed for a double track, new depots erect- 
 ed in Baltimore and Philadelphia, new 
 rails laid, and new branches opened. 
 
 When the war broke out in 1862 this 
 road was the key of the continent. 
 Since then enormous improvements 
 have been made, thousands of steel 
 rails have been laid, locomotives and 
 freight and passenger cars have been 
 added to the stock, new depots made, 
 a new line planned and executed, 
 carrying the road from the broad 
 
56 
 
 FROM PHILADELPHIA TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 meadows and marshes of the Delaware 
 through the valleys and beautiful roll- 
 ing uplands of Delaware county to Ches- 
 
 ter, avoiding all danger from floods, and 
 going over or under twenty-seven streets 
 to enter the city without possible peril to 
 
 hllAKON HILL. 
 
 life or limb. A whole railroad system 
 subsidiary to this road has been devel- 
 oped in Delaware, and to-day, with the 
 best road-bed, double tracks, steel rails, 
 the best locomotives, the best passenger 
 
 cars in the country, supplied with all the 
 modern improvements of brake, platform 
 and signal, and a perfectly drilled corps 
 of subordinates, this road may chal- 
 lenge the attention of the country, and 
 be pointed out as one of the best evi- 
 dences of the growth and prosperity of 
 Philadelphia. 
 
 The depot in Philadelphia, at the 
 corner of Broad street and Washington 
 avenue, is a large and spacious build- 
 ing, which does not pretend to be a 
 model of domestic architecture, but is 
 roomy and reasonably well ventilated. 
 The bell rings, we take our seats and 
 move out through the usual coal-yards 
 and shanties and suburbs, passing the 
 United States Arsenal, until we reach 
 Gray's Ferry, where we see the Schuyl- 
 kill, beautiful at high tide, the high 
 banks opposite once a famous estate, 
 now the seat of the Almshouse, where 
 four thousand paupers live in the win- 
 ter and about fifteen hundred in the 
 summer. So mild and pleasant is this 
 climate that the majority of the paupers 
 creep out, like the blue bottleflies, with 
 the coming of spring, preferring to sleep 
 in barns or under the green trees all the 
 summer, rather than endure the hard beds, discipline and 
 regular habits of the Almshouse. The rains of summer may 
 fill their old bones with rheumatism for winter, but there are 
 
 GLENOLDEN. 
 
FROM PHILADELPHIA TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 57 
 
 RIDLEY PARK. 
 
 charms in the Hfe of the stroller, who 
 feeds to-day at a farm-house, or works 
 a few hours to-morrow for a trifle to get 
 whisky and tobacco, but has no. notes to 
 pay, no house to maintain, no servants 
 to support. 
 
 Gray's Ferry is an old historic name, 
 for here Washington and the men 
 of the Revolution crossed again 
 and again. The old rope ferry 
 was succeeded by the old horse 
 ferry, and now there are three rail- 
 roads here — the Darby Improve- 
 ment, the Junction (which goes to 
 West Philadelphia and makes the 
 connection for the great Southern 
 Air-line), and the old hne, which 
 leads us out, through the old Bart- 
 ram Gardens, where an enthusias- 
 tic botanist made the first and best 
 collection of trees and plants in 
 this country, on to the marshes of 
 the Delaware. The mighty river, 
 widening into a bay, flows on to 
 the ocean, its bosom furrowed by 
 thousands of keels and whitened 
 by myriad sails. We look over wide acies of 
 marshes, now green with the tender colois of spiing, 
 the corn-fields of the higher portion giving by their 
 brown earth beautiful contrasts of color, the lows 
 of corn just coming into sight. All over these 
 meadows stand huge oak trees and elms, amongst 
 whose branches the vessels seem to glide. But 
 beautiful as the scene is, it is a bad place for a rail- 
 road, for when the great river rushes down swollen 
 by some freshet, and is met by the incoming tide. 
 
 the water sets back over 
 the marshes and threat- 
 ens to sweep away the 
 track or put out the fires 
 of the locomotives; 
 and to cross streams and 
 tideways many draw- 
 bridges, with their at- 
 tendant dangers, must 
 be m ai n t ained. To 
 avoid all these difficul- 
 ties, Mr. Hinckley plan- 
 ned the change which 
 is known as the Darby 
 Improvement, carrying 
 the road from Gray's 
 Ferry to Chester over 
 and through the high 
 lands of Darby and Ridley. We shall 
 no longer hear the brakeman shout out 
 "Gibson's," "Lazaretto," "Tinicum" 
 (called by the Indians Tenecitnck), 
 "Crum Creek." We shall no longer 
 wonder that the train should be stopped 
 for so few passengers to get on or off, 
 
 CKUM LYNNE FALLS. 
 
58 
 
 FROM PHILADELPHIA TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 for in future our car will take us over a 
 road-bed so perfectly laid with steel rails 
 that a full glass of water will not spill as 
 the train hurries on through a thickly 
 settled country. Look quickly from the 
 
 window at the country you are travers- 
 ing : see the beautiful station at Bon- 
 naffon, and the magnificent oak tree, 
 worth a hundred stations, that stands in 
 a field iust beyond. We cannot enu- 
 
 lJlbl\M VUW OI LANDbCAl'h, bHUWINC MIIlfAkY liNslUUlE Al CHLSltR. 
 
 merate all the beauties and objects of 
 interest that line the road : every valley 
 opens a pleasant view, every hill is cov- 
 ered with handsome houses, comfortable 
 farmeries or superb trees. Before the 
 road was made, these lands, lying on 
 a ridge high above the river, perfectly 
 healthy and offering the most desirable 
 homes for city people, were inaccessible, 
 but now they can be reached, and have 
 been already appreciated. Most of the 
 land has grown too valuable for farming, 
 and has been bought up and laid out 
 with different degrees of care for sub- 
 urban residences. 
 
 Darby is one of the oldest towns in 
 the State, and contributes largely to the 
 business of the road. Mills were built 
 here in 1696, and it was divided into Up- 
 per and Lower Darby in 1786. The first 
 
 of the new towns is Sharon Hill, where 
 a large amount of land has been laid 
 out in the rectangular method, and al- 
 ready many of the lots are sold to actual 
 settlers : a machine shop has been es- 
 tablished, and the railroad has built a 
 very nice station for passengers. 
 
 Next to Sharon Hill comes Glenoldcn, 
 where hill and dale, wood and mead- 
 ow and a beautiful stream, offer all the 
 picturesqueness that can charm an en- 
 thusiastic or artistic eye, together with 
 good building-sites and every advantage 
 that fertile and forest-clad land can give 
 to one who would exchange the heat and 
 pavements of a city for rural life. From 
 Glenolden it is but a short distance to 
 Norwood and to Moore's Crossing, where 
 the company are erecting turnouts, en- 
 gine-houses, etc., and from here, eight 
 
FROM PHILADELPHIA TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 59 
 
 miles from the city, numerous trains will 
 run to Philadelphia to accommodate the 
 workingmen who, it is beheved, will 
 come out to live on these cool and breezy 
 uplands. 
 
 From Moore's we soon get to Ridley 
 Park, which was described at length in 
 a former Number. The two stations at 
 Ridley are models of beauty in their 
 way : the principal station spans the 
 
 Ku/hR bl.MI.NAKV, 
 
 road-bed, wide enough here for four 
 tracks, and is probably the most pictu- 
 resque in the country, as well as very 
 convenient. Crum Lynne Station is re- 
 markable for the beautiful sculpture of 
 the capitals of the pilasters to the archi- 
 traves of the windows, the architect hav- 
 ing designed each one for this build- 
 ing, using the flowers and fruits and 
 birds and animals of the region for his 
 ornamental work, instead of the usual 
 cornice and frieze and capital of Grecian 
 architecture. 
 
 But the train sweeps us away from 
 Ridley limits, past Leiperville with its 
 primeval railway, and on to Chester. 
 As we round the curve and rush through 
 the woods we see on the left the broad 
 river with its three-masted schooners, 
 ships and steamers, and on the right the 
 
 spires and houses of the town ; and first 
 and predominant the Military School of 
 Colonel Hyatt. This school was incor- 
 porated by act of Legislature in 1862, 
 and is devoted to both civil and military 
 education. The studies and drill are so 
 combined as to secure good mental and 
 physical culture; and to ensure good 
 military instruction the State and the. 
 United States have contributed arms of 
 all kinds. Scholars come from all parts 
 of the country, and even the West In- 
 dies ; and as the standard of scholarship 
 is high, the graduates compare favorably 
 with those from other institutions. 
 
 Chester is one of the oldest towns on 
 the line of the road by actual years, but 
 one of the youngest in growth. First 
 called by the Indians Mackaponacka, 
 and then by the settlers Upland, it had 
 
6o 
 
 FROM PHILADELPHIA TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 a justice of the peace court in 1676. Its 
 court-house was built in 1724. Its first news- 
 paper was published in 1819. For many 
 years Chester dozed away in dignified quiet 
 as the county-town : its court-house and jail 
 gave it all the honor it required. But the 
 streams made good mill-sites, the deep water- 
 front along the river offered splendid wharf- 
 age and chances for shipbuilding, and, as 
 good luck Avould have it, a rivalry awoke 
 which ended in loading Media with the coun- 
 ty buildings and relieving Chester. Since 
 then it has doubled and trebled : mills and 
 factories are on all sides, and its shipyards. j 
 are not easily surpassed. Roach's shipyard * 
 covers twenty-three acres. The firm make 
 their own engines and everything required in . 
 iron shipbuilding from keel to topmast. They \ 
 have six vessels now on the stocks, and em- 
 ploy eleven hundred men, and have room 
 for sixteen hundred. They have built for 
 every trade from the coaster to the East In- 
 diaman, varying in size from six hundred to 
 four thousand tons, and their vessels pass un- 
 challenged amongst the best in the world. 
 
 Nor is trade the only feature of the town. 
 About half a mile from the depot, on a gen- 
 tle eminence, is the Crozer Theological Semi- 
 nary. The approach from Chester for the pe- 
 destrian, along the shrub-, vine- and tree-clad 
 banks of Chester Creek into and across the 
 wide lawn, is a delightful walk. The princi- 
 pal building was erected by John P. Crozer 
 for a normal school. During the war he 
 gave it to the government for a hospital, and 
 when he died in 1866 left it to his sons, de- 
 sirmg them to devote it to some benevolent 
 use. They have responded in a munificent 
 manner by establishing a school for training 
 young men for the ministry, with accommo- 
 dations for a hundred students, houses for the 
 professors, a church, a library building, lec- 
 ture-halls and all the required conveniences 
 for a great and successful school. They 
 have added an endowment fund of two hun- 
 dred and twenty-eight thousand dollars, the 
 whole gift being about three hundred and 
 ninety thousand dollars, and one of the fam- 
 ily has since given twenty-five thousand dol- 
 lars as a library fund. The seminary was 
 opened in 1868 with fifteen students: there 
 are now fifty from all parts of the Union. 
 
 But the most complaisant conductor of the 
 most accommodating special train could not 
 
FROM PHILADELPHIA TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 6i 
 
 ^1 >11 1 Ni. 1 1 Ml 1 O C U\K1 l\ 
 
 wait any longer for us, and we must hurry on through Lamokin, where the 
 Baltimore Central, a tributary road, turns off and traverses a most picturesque 
 country, round by Port De- 
 posit to Perryville, where 
 it again reaches the main 
 road. At Lamokin are 
 works where steel of a pe- 
 culiar kind is manufac- 
 tured under a European 
 patent. From here the 
 road again clings to the 
 shore of the Delaware, and 
 until we reach Wilming- 
 ton the river, with its sails 
 and its blue water, is on 
 the left — on the right a 
 high ridge, which ends in 
 the valley of the Shell Pot 
 and Brandywine at Wil 
 mington. 
 
 We flash past Linwood 
 to stop a moment at Clay- 
 mont, where the ridge 
 comes nearer the river and 
 offers superb sites for 
 buildings. Why Clay- 
 mont has not grown more 
 no one seems to know. 
 There are schools and 
 churches, fine rolling land, 
 
 noble river-views, and all ^ '^^iTSMB^MUBlff"^" ' ^ ^ ^1'^^^^- 
 
 that can make a country "view ok 1)EL.\w.\ke river near cl-Wmont. 
 
62 
 
 FROM PHILADELPHIA TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 VIEW AT CLAYMONI CREFK AM) BRIDGE. 
 
 home delightful. That the place has 
 attractions for lovers of the picturesque 
 may be inferred from the fact that it 
 counts among its residents an artist of 
 such wide and well-founded celebrity as 
 
 Mr. F. O. C. Darley, whose delineations 
 of American life and scenery, especially 
 in the form of book-illustrations, have 
 been familiar to the public for the past 
 thirty years. With so many years of 
 
 fame, Mr. Darley counts but fifty-two of life, and in the 
 enjoyment of vigorous health still continues the practice 
 of his art, executing many commissions from Europe, 
 where his genius is as highly appreciated as at home. 
 
FROM PHILADELl'HIA TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 63 
 
 But we must stick to our train, which car- 
 ries us through the Red Bank Cut to Ellers- 
 he Station, where occurred the first accident 
 of a serious character which has happened 
 on this road for eighteen years, and which 
 was due only to a willful violation of orders 
 by an old and very trusted conductor. At 
 EUerslie are the Edgemoor Iron-works of 
 Messrs. William Sellers &; Co., where every 
 known improvement in the manufacture of 
 iron is being tested and applied. The next 
 curve in the road shows us the meadows of 
 the Shell Pot and the Brandywine, with 
 Wilmington in the distance. The Brandy- 
 wine, famous in our history, runs through 
 as picturesque a valley as there is in Amer- 
 ica, combining all that the climate of Del- 
 aware permits in trees, shrubs, vines and 
 flowers with the wildness and variety of the 
 valley of the Pemigewasset or the wild Am- 
 monoosuck. In this rare valley are mills as 
 old as the settlement of the country, and 
 quaint hamlets that seem to belong to Eu- 
 rope rather than America. 
 
 At Wilmington the system of the Dela- 
 ware railroads begins : it spreads out over 
 the peninsula of Delaware and the Eastern 
 Shore of Maryland like a huge left hand. 
 The thumb touches Chestertown and Centre- 
 ville, the fore finger Oxford, the middle fin- 
 ger Cambridge, the ring finger Crisfield, the 
 little finger Lewes ; and this hand gathers 
 into the main road every year millions of 
 baskets of peaches, and millions more of 
 oysters in baskets and sacks, and crates of 
 berries, and car-loads of hardwood and lum- 
 ber. Under the influence of these roads the 
 sleepy peninsula is beginning a new career. 
 
 We cannot go down the peninsula, so let 
 us keep on to Baltimore, pausing, however, 
 for a moment as we cross Mason and Dix- 
 on's line near Elkton. Little did Charles 
 Mason and Jeremiah Dixon dream, as they 
 set that tangent point for the determination 
 of the boundary-lines of the three States, 
 how famous they would become. But there 
 the simple monument stands in the open 
 fields, and there it must remain so long as 
 the three States need a boundary. 
 
 Soon after leaving Mason and Dixon we 
 strike the first of the great estuaries of the 
 Delaware and Susquehanna, which are the 
 delight of the sportsman, the naturalist and 
 the tourist. No matter at what season of 
 
64 
 
 FROM PHILADELPHIA TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 the year you approach North-east, Prin- 
 cipio, the Susquehanna River or Stem- 
 rner's Run — no matter at what time of the 
 day — the views are always fine. The 
 water spreads out in huge widening bays, 
 and loses itself in the forest or hides 
 
 MOUNr ARARAT — i-ROFlLE ROCK. 
 
 behind some projecting headland ; and 
 when, as is often the case, the surface 
 of the water is actually darkened with 
 large flocks of wild- fowl, the variety as 
 well as beauty of the scene could not be 
 heightened. Such shooting-ground for 
 sportsmen exists nowhere else on this 
 coast easily accessible. At Perryville, 
 Havre de Grace, Bush River and many 
 other places the chance sportsman can 
 find every accommodation, while clubs 
 of gentlemen have leased manv of the 
 
 best points, and established little houses 
 where they may be comfortable when 
 the day's sport is over, and where they 
 can leave from season to season boats, 
 decoys and all the paraphernalia of the 
 sport. To recount the names of can- 
 vas-backs, red heads, bald 
 pates and innumerable 
 other ducks, to tell of the 
 tens, fifties, hundreds shot 
 in a single day, would add 
 nothing to the excitement 
 of any sportsman who has 
 seen from the cars the huge 
 flocks of birds rise and 
 sweep out to sea when 
 scared by some passing 
 train or boat. 
 
 If every passenger could 
 stop once, and study the 
 Susquehanna bridge cross- 
 ing the river between Per- 
 ryville and Havre de 
 Grace, he would have a 
 most profound respect for 
 its projectors and builders. 
 For many years all trans- 
 port by cars was interrupt- 
 ed here, and travelers and 
 merchandise were trans 
 ported by ferry-boat, caus- 
 ing wearisome delays and 
 extra expense. But now a 
 bridge 3273 feet long and 
 with loco feet of trestling, 
 resting on thirteen huge 
 piers built on foundations 
 in water from twenty-seven 
 to sixty feet deep, and cost- 
 ing a miUion and a half 
 of dollars, carries all safe- 
 ly over, and defies floods 
 and ice. This bridge, one of the tri- 
 umphs of engineering and a just source 
 of pride to the road, has already saved 
 in time and trouble a large percentage 
 of its cost. It was threatened the past 
 winter by the ice-pack which filled the 
 river back to Port Deposit, and which 
 seemed to promise for some time the de- 
 struction of that well-named little town. 
 It is hard to believe that in a country so 
 extensive as ours, with all kinds of lands 
 and town-sites, any one could begin to 
 
FROM PHILADELPHIA TO BAL TIMORE. 
 
 65 
 
 PORT DtPOSIl. 
 
 build a town in such a situation. It 
 clings to the broken and rocky shores 
 and hillsides as lichens adhere to rocks 
 and to the bark of trees or swallows' 
 nests to the eaves of a barn. There it 
 is, however, and, judging from its costly 
 
 houses, churches and business appear- 
 ance, its inhabitants have found it a 
 profitable place to stay in. Port Deposit 
 last winter, when the river was filled with 
 ice from shore to shore and for miles in 
 both directions, fissured and cracked 
 
 I '^3 
 
 1 >_)lv 1 Mclll.NRV. 
 
 and covered with mud, logs and debris, seemed on the 
 verge of destruction ; and it was easy to believe that if 
 the river did rise suddenly the moving mass of ice, like 
 some huge glacier, would sweep away all evidences of 
 humanity, leaving behind only the glacial scratches 
 and the roches vwuto7xnecs. Overhanging the railroad 
 
66 
 
 FROM PHILADELPHIA TO BALTIMORE. 
 
 is a very remarkable profile rock which 
 has attained some celebrity, and is shown 
 in one of our sketches. 
 
 From Port Deposit to Baltimore the 
 country is more rolling than from Perry- 
 ville to Wilmington, and there are many 
 
 THE J!RIlIt>H SHtLL. 
 
 picturesque points. One could find at 
 Gunpowder River and Stemmer's Run 
 several beautiful points of view, but by 
 the time he reaches these places the 
 traveler begins to get impatient for the 
 great city, the terminus of his wander- 
 ings, which soon begins to announce it- 
 self by more thickly congregated houses, 
 and roads cut straight through hill and 
 valley, regardless of cost or the destruc- 
 tion of local charms of hill and dale. 
 
 If one were to judge by the streets, he 
 would think Baltimorians lived only on 
 
 oysters, for the new streets seem wholly 
 built of their shells, making them very 
 white, glaring and offensive to the un- 
 accustomed eye. But the attention is 
 soon diverted from houses and roads 
 to the bay and to Fort McHenry, which 
 lies before the town like a sleeping lion. 
 Few forts in the country are more inter- 
 esting or have played a more important 
 part in our military history ; but all its 
 military reputation is less interesting 
 than the fact that whilst confined to a 
 British vessel, one of the fleet unsuccess- 
 fully bombarding the fort, Francis Key 
 wrote the "Star-Spangled Banner," now 
 a national hymn. A bomb thrown into 
 the fort at that time by the British has 
 been preserved on a pillar ever since— 
 almost the only local reminder of the 
 facts of the bombardment. 
 
 At Baltimore we leave the Philadel- 
 phia, Wilmington and Baltimore Rail- 
 road, sorry to part from so good a road 
 and one so important to the welfare of 
 the country. It is a link in the great 
 system, and one kept very bright and 
 well pohshed by its managers. Their 
 course has been to pay only a mod- 
 erate dividend, and use the rest of the 
 earnings to improve the road and its be- 
 longings, and to foster the interests of 
 the people who use it. Such wise pol- 
 icy must build it strongly into the affec- 
 tions and interests of those who live 
 along it, and ensure its being each year 
 a better and better-paying road- 
 
FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. 
 
 VIEW NEAR ANTIETAM, MARYLAND. 
 
 AN old writer who dearly loved ex- 
 cursions, Francis Rabelais, insert- 
 ed in one of his fables an account of a 
 country where the roads were in motion. 
 He called the place the Island of Odes, 
 from the Greek odaq, a "road," and ex- 
 plained : " For the roads travel, like ani- 
 mated things ; and some are wandering 
 roads, like planets, others passing roads, 
 crossing roads, connecting roads. And 
 I saw how the travelers, messengers and 
 inhabitants of the land asked. Where 
 does this road go to ? and that ? They 
 were answered, From the south to Fa- 
 veroUes, to the parish, to the city, to the 
 river. Then hoisting themselves on the 
 proper road, without being otherwise 
 troubled or fatigued, they found them- 
 selves at their place of destination." 
 
 This fancy sketch, thrown off by an 
 inveterate joker three hundred years 
 ago, is justified curiously by any of our 
 modern railways ; but to see the picture 
 
 represented in startling accuracy you 
 should find some busy "junction " among 
 the coal-mountains. Here you may ob- 
 serve, from your perch upon the hill, an 
 assemblage of roads actively reticulating 
 and radiating, winding through the val- 
 leys, slinking off misanthropically into 
 a tunnel, or gayly parading away el- 
 bow-in-elbow with the streams. These 
 avenues, upon minute inspection, are 
 seen to be obviously moving: they are 
 crawling and creeping with an unbroken 
 joint-work of black wagons, the rails 
 hidden by their moving pavement, and 
 the road throughout advancing, foot by 
 foot, into the distance. It is hardly too 
 fanciful — on seeing its covering slide 
 away, its switches swinging, its turn- 
 tables revolving, its drawbridges open- 
 ing — to declare that such a road is an 
 animal — an animal proving its nature, 
 according to Aristotle, by the power to 
 move itself. Nor is it at all censurable 
 
 6/ 
 
68 
 
 FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO 
 
 to ask of a road like this where it "goes 
 to." 
 
 The notion of what Rabelais calls a 
 "wayfaring way," a chcmin ckeinhtant, 
 came into our thoughts at Cuinberland. 
 But Cumberland was not reached until 
 after many miles of interesting travel 
 along a route remarkable for beauties, 
 both natural and improved. A coal- 
 distributor is certain, in fact, to be a road 
 full of attractions for the tourist ; for 
 coal, that Sleeping Beauty of our era, 
 always chooses a pretty bed in which to 
 perform its slumber of ages. The road 
 which delivers the Cumberland coal, 
 however, is truly exceptional for splen- 
 dor of scenery, as well as for historical 
 suggestiveness and engineering science. 
 It has recently become, by means of cer- 
 tain lavish providences established for 
 the blessing of travelers at every turn, a 
 tourist route and a holiday delight. 
 
 It is all very well for the traveler of 
 the nineteenth century to protest against 
 the artificial and unromantic guidance of 
 the railway : he will find, after a little 
 experience, that the homes of true ro- 
 mance are discovered for him by the 
 locomotive ; that solitudes and recesses 
 which he would never find after years 
 of plodding in sandal shoon are silently 
 opened to him by the engineer ; and 
 that Timon now, seeking the profound- 
 est cave in the fissures of the earth, 
 reaches it in a Pullman car. 
 
 The silvery Capitoline dome at Wash- 
 ington floats up from among its garden 
 trees, seeming to grow higher and higher 
 as we recede from it. Quickly domina- 
 ting the low and mean buildings which 
 encumber and try to hide it in its own 
 neighborhood, it gradually rises superior 
 to the whole city, growing greater as 
 Washington grows less. The first part 
 of the course is over the loop of road 
 newly acquired and still improving by 
 the company — a loop hanging down- 
 ward from Baltimore, so as to sweep 
 over Washington, and confer upon the 
 through traveler the gift of an excursion 
 through the capital. This loop swings 
 southwardly from Baltimore to a point 
 near Frederick, Washington being set 
 upon it like a bead in the midst. The 
 
 older road, like a mathematical chord, 
 stretches still between the first points, 
 but is occupied with the carrying of 
 freight. The tourist notices the stout 
 beams of the bridges, the new look of 
 the sleepers, and the sheen of the dou- 
 ble lines of fresh steel rail : he observes 
 some heavy mason-work at the Monoc- 
 acy River. Two hours have passed : at 
 Frederick Junction he joins a road whose 
 cuttings are grass-grown, whose quarried 
 rocks are softened with lichen. He is 
 struck by the change, and with reason, 
 for he is now being carried under the 
 privileges of the first railroad charter 
 granted in America. 
 
 We may not here undertake the story 
 of the iron track, though it is from this 
 very road that such a story must take its 
 departure, and though we cannot grant 
 that that story would be exceeded by any 
 in the range of the author's skill as a 
 matter of popular interest. This rail- 
 road, this " Baltimore and Ohio " artery, 
 connects, through its origin, with the very 
 beginnings of modern progress, and in- 
 deed with feudalism ; for it was opened 
 in 1828 by Charles Carroll, the patriot 
 who had staked his broad lands of Car- 
 rollton in 1776 against the maintenance 
 of feudalism in this country. "I con- 
 sider this," said Carroll, after his slender 
 and aristocratic hand had relinquished 
 the spade, "among the most important 
 acts of my life — second only to my sign- 
 ing the Declaration of Independence." 
 Railroads, excepting coal - mine trams, 
 were as yet untried ; Stephenson had not 
 yet exhibited the Rocket; for travel and 
 transportation the locomotive was un- 
 known, and the Baltimoreans conceived 
 their scheme while yet uncertain whether 
 horse-power or stationary steam-engines 
 would be the best acting force. It was 
 opened as far as Ellicott's Mills as a 
 horse-road, the idlers and beauties of 
 Baltimore participating in the excursion 
 as a novel jest. In 1830, Baron Kru- 
 dener, the envoy from Russia, rode upon 
 it in a car with sails, called the yEolus, 
 a model of which he sent to the emperor 
 Nicholas as something new and hopeful. 
 
 Passing the Monocacy, we roll over a 
 rich champaign country, based upon 
 
FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. 
 
 69 
 
 limestone — the garden of the State, and 
 containing the ancient manor of Carroll- 
 ton, through whose grounds, by one of 
 its branches, this road passes for miles. 
 Near by are quarries of Breccia marble — 
 a conglomerate of cemented variegated 
 pebbles — out of which were cut the rich 
 pillars in the House of Representatives 
 at Washington. The Monocacy is cross- 
 ed, near whose bank lies the bucolic old 
 Maryland town of Frederick, to attain 
 which a twig of the road wanders off 
 for the few necessary miles. Soon the 
 piquant charms of Potomac scenery are 
 
 at hand, the mountains are marching 
 upon us, and the road becomes stimu- 
 lating. 
 
 A jagged spur of the Blue Ridge, the 
 Catoctin Mountain, strides out to the 
 river, and the railroad, striking it, wraps 
 itself around the promontory in a sharp 
 curve, like a blow with the flat of an 
 elastic Damascus sword. The broad 
 Potomac sweeps rushing around its 
 base : it is the celebrated Point of Rocks. 
 The nodding precipice, cut into a rough 
 and tortured profile by the engineers, 
 lays its shadow to sleep on the whizzing 
 
 PO'rOM.\C TUNNEL, NEAR HARPER'S FERRV. 
 
 roofs of the cars as they glitter by. (Shad- 
 ows always seem to print themselves with 
 additional distinctness upon any moving 
 object, like a waterfall or a foaming 
 stream.) There are a village and a 
 bridge at the Point, and the mountain- 
 range, broken in two by the riv-er, re- 
 covers itself gracefully and loftily on the 
 other side. 
 
 For half an hour more, as we rush to 
 meet the course of the Potomac, the 
 broad ledges that heave the bed of the 
 river into mounds, and the ascending 
 configuration of the shore, seem to speak 
 of something grand, and directly we are 
 
 in the cradle of romance, at Harper's 
 Ferry. 
 
 To reach this village, perhaps the most 
 picturesque in the country, we must cross 
 the Potomac from Maryland into Vir- 
 ginia. The bridge is peculiar and artis- 
 tic. It is about nine hundred feet long ; 
 its two ends are curved in opposite di- 
 rections, and at its farther extremity it 
 splits curiously into two bridge-branches, 
 one of which supports the road running 
 up the Shenandoah, while the other car- 
 ries the main road along the Potomac. 
 The latter fork of the bridge runs for 
 half a mile up the course of the Potomac 
 
7° 
 
 FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. 
 
 stream over the water, the road having 
 been denied footing upon the shore on 
 account of the presence there of the 
 government arsenal buildings. The 
 effect to the eye is very curious : the ar- 
 senal is at present razed to the level of 
 the ground (having been fired, the read- 
 er will remember, by the Federal guard 
 at the beginning of hostilities, and some 
 fifteen thousand stand of arms burnt to 
 prevent their falling into Lee's hands), 
 and there is no topographical reason to 
 prevent the track running comfortably 
 on dry ground. The arrangements, how- 
 ever, for purchasing the right to a road- 
 bed on the arsenal grounds, though un- 
 
 der way, are not yet complete, and the 
 road marches on aquatically, as afore- 
 said. 
 
 Harper's Ferry, a town supported of 
 old almost entirely by the arsenal works, 
 is a desolate little stronghold among 
 towering mountains, the ruins being in 
 the foreground. The precipices on either 
 side of the river belong to the Elk Ridge, 
 through which, at some antediluvian pe- 
 riod, the colossal current has hewed its 
 way. At the base of the Virginia side of 
 the mountains, hugged in by the Poto- 
 mac and Shenandoah Rivers, and by 
 Loudon and Bolivar Heights, cowers the 
 town. Across the river towers the mighty 
 
 BATTLE-GROUNDS OF THE POTOMAC VALLEY. 
 
 cupola of Maryland Height, far overtop- 
 ping the other peaks, and farther down 
 the stream, like a diminishing reflection 
 of it, the softer swell of South Mountain. 
 An ordinary rifle-cannon on Maryland 
 Height can with the greatest ease play at 
 bowls to the other summits. From this 
 eminence one Colonel Ford, on Septem- 
 ber 13, 1 862, toppled down his spiked and 
 coward cannon : the hostile guns of the 
 enemy quickly swarmed up the summit 
 he had abandoned, and the Virginia 
 crests of Loudon and Bolivar belched 
 with rebel artillery. The town was sur- 
 rendered by Colonel Miles at the very 
 moment when McClellan, pressing for- 
 
 ward through the passes of South Moun- 
 tain from Frederick, was at hand to 
 relieve it : Miles was killed, and the con- 
 siderable military stores left in the vil- 
 lage were bagged by Stonewall Jackson. 
 Flushed with this temporary advantage, 
 Jackson proceeded to join Lee, who then 
 advanced from Sharpsburg and gave un- 
 successful battle to the Union forces at 
 Antietam Creek. 
 
 This stream pours into the Potomac 
 just above, from the Maryland side. It 
 gives its name to one of the most inter- 
 esting actions of the war. The fields of 
 Antietam and Gettysburg were the only 
 two great battle-grounds on which the 
 
FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. 
 
 Confederates played the role of inva- 
 ders and left the protection of their na- 
 tive States. Antietam was the first, and 
 if it could have been made for Lee a 
 more decisive failure, might have pre- 
 vented Gettysburg. It occurred Sep- 
 tember 15th to 1 8th, 1862. Lee had 
 just thoroughly whipped that handsome 
 Western braggart, General Pope, and, 
 elated with success, thought he could 
 assume the offensive, cross the Potomac, 
 and collect around his banner great 
 armies of dissatisfied secessionists to 
 the tune of "Maryland, my Maryland." 
 McClellan (then in the last month of his 
 command over the army of the Poto- 
 mac) pushed with unwonted vigor over 
 the mountains, inspired, it is said, by the 
 accidental foreknowledge of Lee's whole 
 Maryland plan, and clashed with Lee 
 across the bridges of this pretty highland 
 stream. As an episode he lost Harper's 
 Ferry ; but that was a trifle. It was a 
 murderous duel, that which raged around 
 the Dunker church and over the road 
 leading from Sharpsburg to Hagerstown. 
 Lee's forty thousand men were shielded 
 by an elbow of the Potomac ; his bat- 
 teries of horse-artillery under Stuart were 
 murdering the forces of Hooker, when 
 that general was relieved by the support 
 of Mansfield; then Mansfield was killed 
 and Hooker wounded ; and then Sedg- 
 wick was sent up to replace Mansfield ; 
 then, when Sedgwick was getting the 
 better of Jackson and Hood, McLaws 
 and Walker drew up to the Confederate 
 left, and burst completely through Sedg- 
 wick's line. Presently, Franklin and 
 Smith came across from the stream 
 and reinforced the Federals, driving the 
 Southern advance back to the church, 
 and Burnside rendered some hesitating 
 assistance ; but then rushed up the force 
 which had received the surrender of 
 Harper's Ferry, singing victory, and 
 drove back Burnside ; and when Mc- 
 Clellan, on the morning of the 19th, 
 found that Lee had withdrawn across 
 the Potomac, he was too much discour- 
 aged with his own hurts to venture a pur- 
 suit. He had lost twelve thousand men, 
 and Lee eight thousand. But Antietam, 
 though for us a costly and unsatisfactory 
 
 victory, was for the South a conclusive 
 lesson. The Peter-the-Hermit excursion 
 into Maryland lasted just two weeks, and 
 its failure was signal and instructive. In- 
 tended as an invasion that should result 
 in the occupation of Washington and 
 Philadelphia, it led to nothing but to 
 Stuart's audacious raid into Pennsylva- 
 nia with his thousand troopers — a theat- 
 rical flourish to wind up an unsuccessful 
 drama. As for Harper's Ferry, its over- 
 whelming punishment and precipitate 
 conquest were not without their use : the 
 retention by the Federals of the little 
 depot of army stores on the Virginia 
 bank surprised and thwarted Lee. To 
 reduce it, he had to pause, and ere the 
 operation was complete McClellan was 
 upon him, and cornered him before 
 he was enabled to take up a firm posi- 
 tion in Western Maryland and prepare 
 for the Pennsylvania invasion. The 
 Ferry fell into our hands again, but as a 
 ruin. As for the elaborate bridge ap- 
 proaching it, its history is the history of 
 the Potomac campaign : three times has 
 it been destroyed by the Confederates, 
 and twice by the Unionists. Eight times 
 it has been carried away by freshets. 
 
 An earlier interest, yet intimately con- 
 nected with the rebellion, belongs to 
 Harper's Ferry. From the car window 
 you see the old engine-house where John 
 Brown fortified himself, and was wound- 
 ed and captured, while these wooded 
 hills were bathed with October red in 
 1859. '^he breaches in the walls where 
 he stood his siege are still apparent, fill- 
 ed in with new brickwork. No single 
 life could have been so effectually paid 
 out as his was, for he cemented in the 
 cause of the North the whole abolition 
 sentiment of the civilized world, and 
 gained our army unnumbered recruits. 
 Truly said the slaves when he died, 
 "Massa Brown is not buried: he is 
 planted." 
 
 Of the site of all these storied ruins 
 we can only say again and again that it 
 is beautiful. The rocky steeps that en- 
 close the town have a Scottish air, and 
 traveled visitors, beholding them, are 
 fain to allude to the Trosachs ; but the 
 river that rolls through the mountains. 
 
72 
 
 FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. 
 
 and has whirled them into a hollow as 
 the potter turns a vase, is continental in 
 its character, and plunges through the 
 landscape with a swell of eddy and a 
 breadth of muscle that are like nothing 
 amid the basking Scottish waters. 
 
 On an eminence immediately over- 
 looking Harper's Ferry, and some four 
 hundred feet thereabove, is the enor- 
 mous turtle- shaped rock, curiously block- 
 ed up over a fissure, on which Jeffer- 
 son once inscribed his name. Chimney 
 Rock, a detached column on the Shen- 
 andoah near by, is a sixty-foot high nat- 
 
 ural tower, described by Jefferson in his 
 Notes on Vi7-ginia. Upon the precipice 
 across the river, on the Maryland side, 
 the fancy of the tourist has discovered a 
 figure of Napoleon : it forms a bas-relief 
 of stupendous proportions, having the 
 broad cliff for background, and clearly 
 defining the hair, the Corsican profile 
 and the bust, with an epaulette on the 
 shoulder. The Blue Ridge, as it trav- 
 erses from this point the breadth of Vir- 
 ginia, breaks into various natural eccen- 
 tricities — the Peaks of Otter, rising a 
 mile above the sea, the Natural Bridge, 
 
 SCENE AMONG THE MARYLAND AI.t.EGIlANIES. 
 
 Weyer's Cave, Madison's Cave — and 
 gives issue to those rich heated and min- 
 eralized springs for which the State is 
 famous. 
 
 The tinge of regret with which we 
 leave Harper's Ferry is mitigated by the 
 hope that greater wonders may lie be- 
 yond. In two miles the railroad, as if 
 willing to carve out a picture-frame in 
 which the heroic river may be viewed, 
 excavates the " Potomac Tunnel," as it 
 is named, through which the water is 
 seen like a design in repousse silver, 
 with two or three emerald islands in it 
 
 for jewel-work. The perforation is eighty 
 feet through, but in contrast with its rocky 
 breadth our picture-frame is not too deep : 
 whenever we shift our position, the view 
 seems to increase in art-beauty, and as 
 a final comprehensive picture it recedes 
 and crowds under the spandrels of the 
 arch the whole mountain-pass, with the 
 confluence of the two rivers in the finest 
 imaginable aspect. 
 
 Poor Martinsburg ! during the rebel- 
 lion a mere sieve, through which the 
 tide of war poured back and forth in the 
 various fluctuations of our fortune ! It 
 
FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. 
 
 73 
 
 is said to have been occupied by both 
 armies, alternately, fifteen times. The 
 passenger sees it as a mere foreground 
 of big restaurant and platform, with a 
 conglomeration of village houses in the 
 rear — featureless as the sheep which the 
 painter of Wakefield put in for nothing. 
 One incident, however, supervenes. An 
 old man, with positive voice and man- 
 ners, and altogether a curious specimen 
 in looks, gait and outfit, comes through 
 the train with a pannier of apples and 
 groundnuts. He is pointed out as one 
 of the men of importance in Martins- 
 burg, owning a row of flourishing houses. 
 With the anxious servility which wealth 
 always commands, we purchase an apple 
 of this capitalist, blandly choosing a 
 knotty and unsalable specimen. 
 
 Pretty soon, as we look over into 
 Maryland, we have indicated for us the 
 site of old Fort Frederick, until lately 
 traceable, but now completely oblite- 
 rated. It was an interesting relic of the 
 old Indian wars. Shortly after Brad- 
 dock's defeat on the Monongahela, when 
 the Indians had become very bold, and 
 had almost depopulated this part of 
 Maryland, Fort Frederick was erected 
 by Governor Sharpe as a menace, and 
 garrisoned with two hundred men. It 
 was an immediate moral victory, awing 
 and restraining the savages, though no 
 decided conflict is known to have oc- 
 curred from its construction to its quiet 
 rotting away within the present genera- 
 tion. Those were the days when Fred- 
 erick in Maryland and Chambersburg 
 in Pennsylvania were frontier points, the 
 AUeghanies were Pillars of Hercules, and 
 all beyond was a blank ! 
 
 Still continuing our course on the Vir- 
 ginia side of the Potomac, through what 
 is known in this State as the Virginia 
 \'alley, while in Pennsylvania the same 
 intervale is called the Cumberland Val- 
 ley, we admire the increasing sense of 
 solitude, the bowery wildness of the 
 river-banks, and the spirited freshness 
 of the hastening water. At a station of 
 delightful loneliness we alight. 
 
 Here Sir John's Run comes leaping 
 from the hills to slide gurgling into the 
 Potomac, and at this point we attain 
 
 Berkeley Springs by a dragging ascent 
 of two miles and a half in a comfort- 
 able country stage. Sir John's Run was 
 called after Sir John Sinclair, a quar- 
 termaster in the doomed army of Brad- 
 dock. The outlet into the Potomac is 
 a scene of quiet country beauty, made 
 dignified by the hills around the river. 
 A hot, rustic station of two or three rooms, 
 an abandoned factory building — tall, 
 empty -windowed and haunted-looking 
 — gone clean out for want of commerce, 
 like a lamp for lack of oil. Opposite 
 the station a pretty homespun tavern 
 trellised with grapes, a portrait of Gen- 
 eral Lee in the sitting-room, and a fat, 
 buxom Virginia matron for hostess. All 
 this quiet scene was once the locality of 
 the hot hopes and anxieties of genius, 
 and it is for this reason we linger here. 
 
 When the little harbor at the mouth of 
 Sir John's Run was still more wild and 
 lonely than now, James Rumsey, a work- 
 ing bath -tender at Berkeley Springs, 
 launched upon it a boat that he had in- 
 vented of novel principle and propulsive 
 force. The force was steam, and Rum- 
 sey had shown his model to Washington 
 in 1780. First discoverers of steam-loco- 
 motion are turning up every few months 
 in embarrassing numbers, but we can- 
 not feel that we have a right to suppress 
 the claims of honest Rumsey, the pro- 
 tege of Washington. The dates are said 
 to be as follows : Rumsey launched his 
 steamboat here at Sir John's Run in 1784, 
 before the general and a throng of vis- 
 itors from the Springs; in 1788, John 
 Fitch launched another first steamboat 
 on the Delaware, and sent it successfully 
 up to Burlington ; in 1807, Robert Fulton 
 set a third first steamboat on the Hud- 
 son, the Clermont. Rumsey's motion 
 was obtained by the reaction of a cur- 
 rent sqiiirtcd through the stern of the 
 boat against the water of the river, the 
 current being pumped by steam. This 
 action, so primitive, so remote from the 
 principle of the engine now used, seems 
 hardly worthy to be connected with the 
 great revolutionary invention of steam- 
 travel; yet Washington certified his opin- 
 ion that "the discovery is of vast im- 
 portance, and mav be of the greatest 
 
74 
 
 FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. 
 
 usefulness in our inland navigation." 
 James Rumsey, with just a suspicion of 
 the irritability of talent, accused Fitch 
 of "coming pottering around" his Vir- 
 ginia work-bench and carrying off his 
 ideas, to be afterward developed in Phil- 
 adelphia. It is certain that the develop- 
 ment was great. Rumsey died in Eng- 
 land of apoplexy at a public lecture 
 where he was explaining his contrivance. 
 
 A sun - burnt, dark- 
 eyed young Virginian 
 now guides us up the 
 mountain -road to the 
 Springs, where we find 
 a full-blown Ems set in =^^ 
 the midst of the wilder- %\ 
 ness. The Springs of 
 Berkeley, originally in 
 eluded in the estates o 
 Lord Fairfax, and by 
 him presented to the col- 
 ony, were the first fash- 
 ionable baths opened in 
 this country. One half 
 shudders to think how 
 primitive they were in 
 the first ages, when the 
 pools were used by the 
 sexes alternately, and 
 the skurrying nymphs 
 hastened to retreat at 
 the notification thai 
 their hour was out and 
 that the gentlemen 
 wanted to come in. 
 They were populous 
 and civilized in the pre- 
 Revolutionary era when 
 Washington began to 
 frequent them and be- 
 came part owner in the surrounding 
 land. The general's will mentions his 
 property in "Bath," as the settlement 
 was then called. The Baroness de 
 Reidesel (wife of the German general 
 of that name taken with Burgoyne at 
 Saratoga) spent with her invahd hus- 
 band the summer of 1779 at Berkeley, 
 making the acquaintance of Washing- 
 ton and his family ; and whole pages of 
 her memoirs are devoted to the quaint 
 picture of watering-place life at that 
 date. 
 
 Berkeley Springs are probably as en- 
 joyable as any on the continent. There 
 is none of that aspect of desolation and 
 pity-my- sorrows so common at the faded 
 resorts of the unhappy South, yet a 
 pleasant rurahty is impressed on the 
 entertainment. The principal hotel is 
 a vast building, curiously rambling in 
 style : the dining-room, for instance, is 
 a house in itself, planted in a garden. 
 
 SCENE AT CUMlitRLAND NARROWS. 
 
 Here, when the family is somewhat 
 small and select, will be presented the 
 marvels of Old Dominion cooking — the 
 marrowy flannel-cake, the cellular waf- 
 fle, the chicken melting in a beatitude 
 of cream gravy : when the house is 
 pressed with its hundreds of midsum- 
 mer guests these choice individualities 
 of kitchen chemistry are not attainable ; 
 but even then the bread, the roast, the 
 coffee — a great chef is known by the 
 quality of his simples — are of the true 
 Fifth Avenue style of excellence. Cap- 
 
FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. 
 
 75 
 
 tain Potts (we have come to the lands 
 where the hotel - keepers are military 
 officers), an old moustache of the Mexi- 
 can war, broods over the large establish- 
 ment like the father of a great family. 
 With the men he is wise on a point of 
 horseflesh or the quality of the brandy ; 
 with the matrons he is courtly, gallant, 
 anecdotic : the young women appear to 
 idolize him, and lean their pretty elbows 
 on his desk half the day, for he is their 
 protector, chevalier, entertainer, bonbon- 
 holder, adviser and elder brother, all in 
 one. Such is the landlord, as that rare 
 expert is understood in the South. As 
 for the regimen, it is the rarest kind of 
 Pleasure made Medicinal, and that must 
 be the reason of its efficacy. There is 
 a superb pool of tepid water for the gen- 
 tlemen to bathe in : a similar one, ex- 
 tremely discreet, for the ladies. Besides 
 these, of which the larger is sixty feet 
 long, there are individual baths, drink- 
 ing fountains in arbors, sulphur and iron 
 springs, all close to the hotel. The wa- 
 ter, emerging all the year round at a 
 temperature of about seventy-five de- 
 grees, remains unfrozen in winter to the 
 distance of a mile or more along the 
 rivulet by which it escapes. The flavor 
 is so little nauseous that the pure issue 
 of the spring is iced for ordinary table 
 use ; and this, coupled with the fact that 
 we could not detect the slightest unusual 
 taste, gave us the gravest doubts about 
 the trustworthiness of this mineral foun- 
 tain's old and unblemished reputation : 
 another indication is, that they have 
 never had the liquid analyzed. But the 
 gouty, the rheumatic, the paralyzed, the 
 dyspeptic, who draw themselves through 
 the current, and let the current draw 
 itself through them, are content with no 
 such negative virtues for it, and assign 
 
 To Berkeley every virtue under heaven. 
 
 The mountain-village known to Wash- 
 ington as " Bath " is still a scene of fash- 
 ionable revel : the over-dressed children 
 romp, the old maids flirt, the youthful 
 romancers spin in each other's arms to 
 music from the band, and dowagers 
 carefully drink at the well from the 
 old-fashioned mug decorated with Poor 
 
 Richard's maxims ; but the festivities 
 have a decorous and domestic look that 
 would meet the pity of one of the regular 
 ante-rebellion bloods. After the good 
 people have retired at an early hour, we 
 fancy the ghost of a lofty Virginia swell 
 standing in the moonlight upon the 
 piazza, which he decorates with gleams 
 of phantom saliva. Attended by his 
 teams of elegant horses, and surround- 
 ed by a general halo of gambling, 
 racing, tourneying and cock - fighting, 
 he seems to shake his lank hair sadly 
 over the poor modern carnival, and say, 
 "Their tameness is shocking to me." 
 
 There is a good deal of honest sport 
 still to be had in the adjacent hills : the 
 streams yield trout, and various larger 
 prey, for which the favorite bait is a 
 small ugly fish called helgamite. The 
 woods contain turkeys, pheasants, quail 
 and woodcock. The region has a valu- 
 able interpreter in the person of General 
 David H. Strother, so agreeably known 
 to the public as "Porte Crayon," whose 
 father was lessee of the Springs, and 
 who at one period himself conducted the 
 hotel. He addicts himself now to pen 
 and pencil solely. In the village, where 
 he presides over a pretty cottage home, 
 he has quite a circle of idolaters : the 
 neighbors' houses display on their walls 
 his sketches of the village eccentrics, 
 attended by those accessories of dog or 
 gun or nag which always stamp the 
 likeness, and make the rustic critic cry 
 but, "Them's his very features!" A 
 large, boisterous painting in the hotel 
 represents his impressions of the village 
 arena in his youth ; and ancient game- 
 sters, gray-headed now, hke to stroll in 
 and contemplate their own portraits 
 grouped around the cock-pit in all the 
 hot blood of bettmg days and in the 
 green dress-coats of 1 840. Strother ( now 
 an active graybeard) was profoundly 
 stirred by the outbreak of the rebellion. 
 His friends were slaveholders and Con- 
 federates : he lived upon the mountain- 
 line dividing the rich, proud, noble rebels 
 of the eastern counties from the hungry 
 and jealous loyalists of W^est Virginia. 
 He himself loved the State as Bruce 
 loved Scotland, but he loved country 
 
76 
 
 FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. 
 
 better. He shut himself up with his dis- 
 tracting problem for three days in utter 
 privacy : he emerged with his mind 
 made up, a Union soldier. 
 
 " It must have been awkward for a Vir- 
 ginian to cast his lot against Virginia," 
 we observed to the stagedriver who bore 
 us back to the station — an ex-Federal 
 soldier and a faithful devotee of Cray- 
 on's. 
 
 "No awkwarder than for Virginia to 
 go against her country : 
 that's how zuc looked at 
 it," retorted the patriot. ^^ ms 
 
 Bidding adieu to 
 Berkeley and its pater- 
 nal landlord, we resume 
 the steel road (that well- 
 worn phrase of the " iron 
 way" is a complete mis- 
 nomer) with another 
 glance of familiarity at 
 the beautiful confluence 
 of Sir John's Run with 
 the Potomac, where the 
 sunny waters still seem -^ 
 to murmur of the land- 
 ing of Braddock's army 
 and the novel disturb- 
 ance of James Ram- 
 sey's steamer. The 
 mountains extending 
 from this point, the re- 
 cesses of the Blue Ridge, 
 in their general trend 
 south-westerly through 
 the State, are one great 
 pharmacy of curative 
 waters. Jordan and 
 Capper Springs, in the 
 neighborhood of Win- 
 chester, 1 i e thirty or 
 forty miles to the south; and beneath 
 those are imbedded the White, Black, 
 Yellow, and we know not how many 
 other colors in the general spectrum 
 of Sulphurs. It would perhaps be 
 our duty to indicate more exactly the 
 Bethesdas of this vast natural sanita- 
 rium, to which our present course gives 
 us the key, but that task has already 
 been performed, in a complete and very 
 attractive manner, by Mr. Edward A. 
 Pollard in his little work The Vir<rinia 
 
 Tourist. Our present task is to attain 
 the main wall of the Alleghany Moun- 
 tains, which we do at the town of Cum- 
 berland, after passing through the grand 
 curved tunnel at Pawpaw Ridge, and 
 crossing Little Cacapon Creek, and trav- 
 ersing the South Branch, which is the 
 larger and true Potomac, and admiring 
 the lofty precipices, with arched and vault- 
 ed strata, on South Branch Mountain and 
 at Kelly's Rocks and Patterson Creek. 
 
 CLIFF VIEW, CUMBERLAND NARROWS. 
 
 It is but a prosaic consideration, but 
 the bracing air of the mountain-ride from 
 Berkeley Springs down to the railway 
 station, and the rapid career thence to 
 Cumberland, have given us the appetites 
 of ogres. We carry our pilgrim scrip 
 into the town of Cumberland without 
 much hope of having it generously till- 
 ed, for this coaly capital, lost among its 
 mountains, had formerly the saddest of 
 reputations for hospitality. The three 
 or four little taverns were rivals in the 
 
FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. 
 
 77 
 
 art of how not to diet. Accordingly, our 
 surprise is equal to our satisfaction when 
 we find every secret of a grand hotel 
 perfectly understood and put in practice 
 at the "Oueen City," the large house 
 built and conducted by the railway com- 
 pany. A competent Chicago purveyor, 
 Mr. H. M. Kinsley, who has the office 
 of general manager of the hotels be- 
 longing to the corporation, resides here 
 as at the head quarters of his depart- 
 ment, and is blessed every day by the 
 flying guests from the railway-trains, as 
 well as the permanent boarders who use 
 Cumberland as a mountain-resort. The 
 choicest dainties from the markets of 
 Baltimore, laid tenderly on ice in that 
 city and brought as freight in the light- 
 ning trains of the road, are cooked for 
 the tables, and the traveler "exercised 
 in woes," who used to groan over salt 
 pork and dreadful dodgers, now finds 
 the "groaning" transferred to the over- 
 loaded board. The house is now in all 
 the charm of freshness and cleanliness, 
 hospitably furnished, with deep piazza, 
 a pretty croquet-lawn with fountain, and 
 other modern attractions, the whole sur- 
 rounded with what is no small gain in a 
 muddy Maryland town — a broad Schil- 
 linger cement pavement, which, like Mr. 
 Wopsle's acting, may be praised as 
 "massive and concrete." 
 
 By day, Cumberland is quite given 
 over to carbon : drawing her supplies 
 from the neighboring mining-town of 
 Frostburg, she dedicates herself devout- 
 ly to coals. All day long she may be 
 seen winding around her sooty neck, 
 hke an African queen, endless chains 
 and trains and rosaries of black dia- 
 monds, which never tire of passing 
 through the enumeration of her jeweled 
 fingers. At night the scene is more 
 beautiful. We clambered up the near- 
 est hill at sunset, while the colored light 
 was draining into the pass of Wills' 
 Mountain as into a vase, and the lamps 
 of the town sprang gradually into sight 
 beneath us. The surrounding theatre 
 of mountains had a singularly calm and 
 noble air, recalling the most enchanted 
 days of Rome and the Campagna. The 
 curves of the hills are marvels of sway- 
 
 ing grace, depending from point to point 
 with the elegance of draperies, and seat- 
 ing the village like a gem in the midst 
 of "great laps and folds of sculptor's 
 work." The mechanics and miners, as 
 twilight deepened, began to lead their 
 sweethearts over these beautiful hills, so 
 soft in outline that no paths are neces- 
 sary. The clouds of fireflies made an 
 effect, combining with the village lights 
 below. Then as night deepened, as if 
 they were the moving principle of all 
 the enchantment, the company's rolling- 
 mills, like witches' kettles, began to spirt 
 enormous gouts of flame, which seemed 
 to cause their heavy roofs to flutter like 
 the lids of seething caldrons. 
 
 The commanding attraction of the 
 western journey is necessarily the pas- 
 sage of the AUeghanies. The climb be- 
 gins at Piedmont, and follows an ascent 
 which in eleven consecutive miles pres- 
 ents the rare grade of one hundred and 
 sixteen feet per mile. The first tableau 
 of real sublimity, perhaps, occurs in fol- 
 lowing up a stream called Savage River. 
 The railway, like a slender spider's 
 thread, is seen hanging at an almost 
 giddy height up the endless mountain- 
 side, and curved hither and thither in 
 such multiplied windings that enormous 
 arcs of it can always be seen from the 
 flying window of the car. The woods, 
 green with June or crimson with Novem- 
 ber, clamber over each other's shoulders 
 up the ascent ; but as we attain the ele- 
 vation of two hundred feet above the 
 Savage, their tufted tops form a soft and 
 mossy embroidery beneath us, diminish- 
 ing in perspective far down the cleft of 
 the ravine. As we turn the flank of the 
 great and stolid Backbone Mountain we 
 command the mouth of another stream, 
 pouring in from the south-west : it is a 
 steeply -enclosed, hill-cleaving torrent, 
 which some lover of plays and cider, 
 recollecting Shakespeare's Midsummer 
 Night's slumber beneath the crabapple 
 boughs, has named Crabtree Creek. 
 There is a point where the woody gorges 
 of both these streams can be command- 
 ed at once by the eye, and Nature gives 
 us few landscape ^i7/rt'(Z«/j more primi- 
 tively wild and magnificent than these. 
 
78 
 
 FROM THE POTOMAC TO TIJE OHIO. 
 
 This ascent was made by the engi- 
 neers of the company in the early days 
 of raih'oads, and when no one knew at 
 what angle the friction of wheels upon 
 rails would be overcome by gravity. On 
 the trial-trip the railroad president kept 
 close to the door, meaning, in the case 
 of possible discomfiture and retrogres- 
 sion, to take to the woods ! But all went 
 well, and in due time was reached, as 
 we now reach it, Altamont, the alpine 
 village perched two 
 thousand six hundred 
 and twenty - six feet 
 above the tide. 
 
 The interest of the 
 staircase we have run 
 up depends greatly on 
 its pioneer character. 
 No mountain-chain had 
 been crossed by a loco- 
 motive before the AUe- 
 ghanies were outraged, 
 as we see them, here 
 and by this track. As 
 the railroad we follow 
 was the first to take 
 existence in this coun- 
 try, excepting some 
 short mining roads, so 
 the grade here used was 
 the first of equal steep- 
 ness, saving on some 
 English roads of inferior 
 length and no moun- 
 tainous prestige. Here 
 the engineer, like Van 
 Amburgh in the lion's 
 den, first planted his 
 conqueror's foot upon 
 the mane of the wilder- 
 ness ; and in this spot 
 modern science first claimed the right 
 to reapply that grand word of a French 
 monarch, " // ny a plus dc Pyrenees F' 
 
 We are on the crest of the Alleghanies. 
 On either side of the mountain-pass we 
 have threaded rise the higher summits 
 of the range ; but, though we seem from 
 the configuration of the land to be in a 
 valley, we are met at every turn by the 
 indications familiar to mountain-tops — 
 indications that are not without a special 
 desolation and pathos. Though all is 
 
 green with summer, we can see that the 
 vegetation has had a dolorous struggle 
 for existence, and that the triumph of 
 certain sparse trees here and there is 
 but the survival of the strongest. They 
 stand scattered and scraggy, like indi- 
 vidual bristles on a bald pate. Their 
 spring has been borrowed from summer, 
 for the leafage here does not begin until 
 late in June. The whole scenery seems 
 to array itself for the tourist like a coun- 
 
 s»';>y8ii«?>>— - 
 
 \ ALLEY I ALLS, \\ Lb I Mr.CLNL\. 
 
 try wife, with many an incompleteness 
 in its toilet, and with a kind of haggard 
 apology for being late. Rough log- 
 houses stand here and there among the 
 laurels. The tanned gentlemen stand- 
 ing about look like California miners, as 
 you see them in the illustrations to Bret 
 Harte's stories. Through this landscape, 
 roughly blocked out, and covered still 
 with Nature's chips and shavings — and 
 seeming for that very reason singularly 
 fresh and close to her mighty hand — we 
 
FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. 
 
 79 
 
 fly for twenty miles. We are still as- 
 cending, and the true apex of our path 
 is only reached at the twentieth. This 
 was the climax which poet Willis came 
 out to reach in a spirit of intense curios- 
 ity, intent to peer over and see what was 
 on the other side of the mountains, and 
 with some idea, as he says, of hanging 
 his hat on the evening star. His dis- 
 gust, as a bard, when he found that the 
 highest point was only named "Cran- 
 berry Summit," was sublime. 
 
 "Willis was particularly struck," said 
 the landlord of the Glades Hotel, "with 
 a quality of whisky we had hereabouts 
 at the time of his visit. In those days, 
 before the ' revenue,' an article of rich 
 corn whisky was made in small quan- 
 tities by these Maryland farmers. Mr. 
 Willis found it agree with him particu- 
 larly well, for it's as pure as water, and 
 slips through your teeth like flaxseed tea. 
 I explained to him how it gained in qual- 
 ity by being kept a few years, becoming 
 like noble old brandy. Mr. Willis was 
 fired with the idea, and took a barrel 
 along home with him, in the ambitious 
 intention of ripening it. In less than six 
 months," pursued the Boniface with a 
 humorous twinkle in his eyes, "he sent 
 for another barrel." 
 
 The region where we now find our- 
 selves among these mountain-tops is 
 known as the Glades — a range of ele- 
 vated plateaux marked with all the signs 
 of a high latitude, but flat enough to be 
 spread with occasional patches of dis- 
 couraged farms. The streams make 
 their way into the Youghiogheny, and 
 so into the Ohio and Gulf of Mexico, for 
 we have mounted the great watershed, 
 and have long ago crossed both branches 
 of the sun -seeking Potomac ! We are 
 in a region that particularly justifies the 
 claim of the locomotive to be the great 
 discoverer of hidden retreats, for never 
 will you come upon a place more obvi- 
 ously disconcerted at being found out. 
 The screams of the whistle day by day 
 have inserted no modern ideas into this 
 mountain-cranium, which, like Lord John 
 Russell's, must be trepanned before it 
 can be enlightened. The (ilades are 
 sacred to deer, bears, trout. But the fatal 
 
 rails guide to them an unceasing proces- 
 sion of staring citizens, and they are 
 filled in the fine season with visitors from 
 Cincinnati and Baltimore. For the com- 
 fort of these we find established in the 
 Glades two dissimilar hotels. 
 
 The first hostelry is the Deer Park 
 Hotel, just finished, and really admi- 
 rable in accommodations. It is a large 
 and very tasteful structure, with the gen- 
 eral air of a watering-place sojourn of 
 the highest type — a civilized- looking 
 fountain playing, and the familiar thun- 
 der of the bowling-alley forming bass to 
 the click of the billiard-room. Here, as 
 in Cumberland, we find an artificial for- 
 wardness of the dinner-table in the midst 
 of the most unpromising circumstances. 
 The daintiest meats and cates are served 
 by the deftest waiters. The fact is, the 
 hotel is owned by the company, and 
 the dinners are wafted over, in Arabian 
 Nights fashion, from the opulent markets 
 of Baltimore. To prepare a feast, in this 
 desolation, fit for the nuptials of kings 
 and emperors, would be a very simple 
 matter of the telegraph. Altogether, 
 the aspect of this ornate, audacious-look- 
 ing summer palace is the strangest thing, 
 just where it is, to be seen on the moun- 
 tains. The supreme sweetness of the 
 air, the breath of pine and hemlock, the 
 coolness of midsummer nights, make 
 the retreat a boon for July and August. 
 In autumn, among the resplendent and 
 tinted mountain-scenery, with first-rate 
 sport in following the Alleghany deer, 
 the charms are perhaps greater. 
 
 The other resting-place of which we 
 spoke is at the Glades Hotel in the town 
 of Oakland — the same in which Mr. Wil- 
 lis quenched his poetic thirst. Oakland, 
 looking already old and quaint, though 
 it is a creation of the railroad, sits imme- 
 diately under the sky in its mountain, in 
 a general dress and equipage of white- 
 washed wooden houses. A fine stone 
 church, however, of aspiring Gothic, 
 forms a contrast to the whole encamp- 
 ment, and seems to have been quickly 
 caught up out of a wealthy city : it is a 
 monumental tribute by the road-presi- 
 dent, Mr. Garrett, to a deceased brother; 
 the county, too, in its name of Garrett, 
 
8o 
 
 FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. 
 
 bears testimony to the same powerful and 
 intelligent family. As for the "Glades," 
 it is kept by Mr. Dailey in the grand old 
 Southern style, and the visitor, very like- 
 ly for the first time in his life, feels that 
 he is at home. It is a curious thing that 
 the sentiment of the English inn, the 
 priceless and matchless feeling of com- 
 fort, has now completely left the mother- 
 
 country to take refuge with some fine old 
 Maryland or Virginia landlord, whose 
 ideas were formed before the war. We 
 have at the "Glades" a specimen. In 
 Captain Potts of Berkeley we found an- 
 other. This kind of landlord, in fact, 
 should be a captain, a general or a 
 major, in order to fill his role perfectly. 
 He is the patron and companion of his 
 
 FISH CREhK VALLEY, WEST VIRGINIA. 
 
 guests, looking to their amusement with 
 all the solicitude of a private household- 
 er. His manners are filled with a beam- 
 ing, sympathedc and exquisite courtesy. 
 He is necessarily a gentleman in his 
 manners, having all his life lived that 
 sporting, playful, supervisory and white- 
 handed existence proper at once to the 
 master of a plantation and the owner of 
 a hotel. His society is constantly sought, 
 his table is pounced upon by ladies with 
 backgammon in the morning, by gen- 
 tlemen with decks of cards at night. 
 Always handsome, sunburnt, and with 
 unaffected good-breeding, he is the king 
 of his delicious realm, the beloved des- 
 pot of his domain. We have left our- 
 selves, in sketching the general cha- 
 racter, no space to descend to particulars 
 on Mr. Dailey ; but he was all the time 
 
 before us as a sitter when we made the 
 portrait. A stroll with him around his 
 farm, and to his limpid little chalybeate 
 spring, after one of his famously-cooked 
 breakfasts of trout and venison, leaves 
 an impression of amity that you would 
 not take away from many private coun- 
 try-houses. 
 
 The affluents of the Little and Great 
 Yok (so the Youghiogheny is locally 
 called) are still stocked with trout, while 
 a gentleman of Oakland has abundance 
 of the fish artificially breeding in his 
 "ladders," and sells the privilege of net- 
 ting them at a dollar the pound. As for 
 the wild fish, we were informed by a 
 sharp boy who volunteered to show us 
 the chalybeate spring, and who guided 
 us through the woods barefoot, making 
 himself ill with "sarvice" berries as he 
 
FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. 
 
 went, — we were instructed by this natu- 
 ralist that the trout were eaten away from 
 the streams " by the alligators." This we 
 regarded as a sun-myth, or some other 
 form of aboriginal superstition, until we 
 were informed by several of the gravest 
 and most trustworthy gentlemen of sev- 
 eral different localities on the mountains 
 that there really is a creature infesting 
 these streams supposed by them to be a 
 young alligator, reaching a length of 
 twelve inches, and doubtless subsisting 
 on fish. An alligator as a mountain-rep- 
 tile had not entered into our conception : 
 
 can these voracious saurians, playing in 
 the alpine affluents of the Mississippi, 
 possibly be identical with the vast and 
 ugly beasts of the lower bayous and the 
 Gulf? We leave the identification for 
 some reptile-loving philosopher. 
 
 Descending the western slope of the 
 mountains, we prick up our attention, 
 although the grade is gradual and easy. 
 We know that we are coming to the 
 crowning glory of the ride, the region 
 celebrated for its more than Arcadian 
 beauty, and consecrated by the earliest 
 glories of our war — by the mountain 
 
 CHEAT RIVER VALLEY AND MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Iliad of McClellan, the initial action at 
 Philippi, and the prompt trampling out 
 of West Virginia secession by the vic- 
 tories of Cheat River. This tameless, 
 mountain-lapped, hemlock-tinted river 
 had long been our. fancied cynosure. 
 "Each mortal hashis Carcassonne, "said, 
 after a French poet, the late lamented 
 John R. Thompson, using the term for 
 what is long desired and never attained ; 
 and Mr. Matthew Arnold, in writing of a 
 "French Eton," says, "Whatever you 
 miss, do not miss seeing Carcassonne." 
 As Carcassonne exists in French land- 
 scape, exists in the tourist's mind and 
 6 
 
 desire, a standard of beauty and historic 
 suggestion, such to us had become this 
 swart and noble river. Now it happens 
 that Thompson has left a description, 
 in his most polished prose, of glorious 
 Cheat River. As our own powers of 
 description are very inferior, we make 
 no scruple of borrowing, or, as Reade 
 calls it. "jewel-setting:" "The grandest 
 achievement of the engineer (whose 
 name, Benjamin H. Latrobe, should 
 always be stated in connection with the 
 road) is to be found, however, in the 
 region of Cheat River, where to the un- 
 scientific eye it would appear almost 
 
82 
 
 FROM THE POTOMAC TO THE OHIO. 
 
 impossible that a road-bed could ever 
 have been built. For two miles beyond 
 Rowlesburg, where the Cheat River is 
 crossed on a massive bridge of iron, 
 there is a continuous succession of mar- 
 vels in railway-work, of which the Tray 
 Run viaduct is a dream of lightness and 
 grace, yet so firm in its welded strength 
 that thousands of tonsof 
 merchandise pass over '-■ 
 
 it daily without causing ^^ 
 
 the slightest oscillation 
 of its airy arches. Here, ^^ 
 
 too, the wonders of me- 
 chanical skill are placed 
 in striking juxtaposition 
 with the wonders of Na- 
 ture, whose obduracy 
 has been so signally 
 overcome. The sense of 
 security was heighten- 
 ed in our case by a furi- 
 ous storm which burst 
 upon us. We were seat- 
 ed on the fender or ' cow- 
 catcher,' watching the 
 majestic marshaling of 
 the thunder-clouds over 
 the mountain-tops, and 
 enjoying to the full the 
 excitement of the mo- 
 ment, when suddenly 
 the wind blew a terrific 
 gust, filling the air with 
 dust and dry leaves, and 
 threatening to carry us 
 individually over the — 
 
 precipice. The train 
 was stopped, and we 
 sought shelter in the comfortable car, 
 which then moved on through the driv- 
 ing floods that continued to descend for 
 half an hour, forming cataracts on every 
 side of us. But the water ran off harm- 
 lessly from the solid track, and our en- 
 gine bade defiance to the tempest, which 
 hurled huge branches of the trees into the 
 angry abyss beneath. The triumph of 
 Science over Nature was complete ; and 
 as the sinking sun threw a glow over 
 the Glades where the clouds had part- 
 ed, I think my companions caught some 
 inspirations of the ' Poetry of the Rail- 
 way.' " 
 
 At Grafton we have choice of two 
 routes : one, to Wheeling, leads us by 
 the beaudful scenery of the Tygart, 
 where the Valley River Falls are laugh- 
 ing and glistening all day and all night, 
 and by the stupendous BoUman bridge 
 at Bellaire, almost two miles long, to 
 Wheeling:. But we continue on a straisrht 
 
 CHEAT RIVER NARROWS. 
 
 course to Cincinnati, having promised 
 ourselves to see the contrast between the 
 City of Monuments and the Metropolis 
 of Pork. Grafton offers us the accom- 
 modations of another of the company's 
 hotels, where, as at Cumberland, we are 
 daintily and tenderly fed. At Parkers- 
 burg we find another superb bridge, over 
 a mile in length ; at Athens an imposing 
 insane asylum, to take care of us if all 
 these engineering wonders have deprived 
 us of our senses ; and finally in Cincin- 
 nati, just a day after our departure from 
 Baltimore, the gleam of the Ohio River 
 and the fulfillment of our intention. 
 

 "MAY" IN JUNE, 
 
 
 ^ '""*' ^ Hi|*M)*#-'^-*-%^ 
 
 SURF-BATHING. 
 
 AH," said once the caz'ssz'er of the 
 Grand Hotel dii Louvre, "if all 
 my clients were Americans !" This fer- 
 vent wish was uttered when Mr. Merri- 
 mac of Marblehead had just paid his 
 month's bill for lodgment of self, wife 
 and five tall girls without grumbling at 
 the charges for service, for bougies, car- 
 riages, fires and detriment to furniture 
 which decorated and gave incident to 
 
 that impressive document. It probably 
 never entered into the imagination of 
 this worthy major-domo that there are 
 actually hotels in the world where the 
 guests are substantially all Americans. 
 His fancy would have reeled back from 
 the delicious picture. But at one of our 
 crowded summer-haunts, such as Sara- 
 toga, every bill is paid by cheerful Amer- 
 ican payers in whom is no guile, and the 
 
 83 
 
84 
 
 "MAY" IN JUNE. 
 
 crowd of idealized patrons at any one 
 house is multiplied by the dozens of 
 hostelries composing the resort. The 
 American hotel-guest indeed is the sanc- 
 tified and purified ideal of what a client 
 should be in the landlord's view. He 
 has none of the European traveler's 
 vices. He does not tyrannize over and 
 nag at the waiters nor jangle the bells 
 as a summons to the proprietor for sup- 
 posed derelictions, like an Englishman; 
 he does not sputter and sprawl and gor- 
 mandize, and afterward haggle over the 
 bill, like the bia: French vicomte : he 
 
 does not bargain for a cheaper room 
 among the garrets, and befoul his nest 
 with cigar- ends and kirsch-bottles, like 
 the German baron ; he does not wail 
 over the quality of his wine, or destroy 
 the riding-horse he has hired with goad- 
 ing, or send a dozen waiters to collect 
 the materials for his salad, and then 
 some night fold up his discontent and 
 insolvently steal away, like the Italian. 
 In contrast to these various insubordinate 
 and undutiful types the American tourist 
 is a chastened saint. He expects his 
 accommodation to be little or nothing, 
 
 PORCH Ul' IHK brocKUJiN Huubh. 
 
 and the bill for that little long. He is 
 grateful if the hotel-clerk will look at 
 him, and a civil remark from this poten- 
 tate will set him up for a whole morning. 
 He ties on his bib at dinner, and watches 
 with delight the distant waiters talking 
 gossip with each other, meanwhile amus- 
 ing himself with rattling his knife and 
 fork, as good as gold. When he needs 
 a pitcher of water in his chamber, he 
 peals for hours on his bell, then genially 
 puts his head into the corridor, appeal- 
 ing to some domestic, who chills him by 
 saying that this is not his flo', sah, and 
 perhaps in the end saunters easily into 
 the dining-room, to replenish his ewer 
 himself from the water - cooler. These 
 particulars, however, do not show the 
 
 American hotel-guest in his very loftiest 
 aspect. His true canonization comes, 
 like Saint Bartholomew's, when he is 
 being flayed. At Saratoga, for instance, 
 in those streets of crazy cardboard, lace- 
 edged palaces, there are mornings when 
 the whole population is caught exhibit- 
 ing some of the highest qualities of saint- 
 ship. There is an hegira : the belle of 
 the place has left over night or the cele- 
 brated millionaire family is summoned 
 to a funeral, and "good form" demands 
 that everybody who is anybody must 
 stay not on the order of his going, but 
 go at once. On such days the matin 
 hotel -clerk is besieged with offers of 
 money. He resembles then at once 
 some popular priest in a Roman con- 
 
'MAY" IN JUNE. 
 
 85 
 
 is^"ss^^fi^?Ki 
 
 ..fljfciLi^&:«^ tc:^*^ — 
 
 .4;i-:T ~^4 
 
 CAPE MAY, FROM THE OCEAN. 
 
 fessional and a croupier at San Carlo 
 raking in the night's profits. The crowd 
 ask no questions, make no calculations : 
 they only want to pay. They entreat, 
 they implore, they shove and push each 
 other, they employ little ruses to get 
 ahead of their neighbors, in order that 
 they may strip themselves of their sub- 
 stance and lay the contents of their 
 purses on the altar of the establishment. 
 The liquidation is made without ques- 
 tion or complaint. Extras are charged 
 at tremendous rates ; carriage, porter- 
 age, leverage, average and beverage are 
 computed at strangely-dilated sums; the 
 guest, having arrived at twilight of Sat- 
 urday and leaving early on Monday, is 
 charged, in the clerk's magnificent arith- 
 metic, for three days ; there has been an 
 unaccountable failure of provisions, the 
 commonest dishes at table have been 
 lacking or uneatable, and the guest, be- 
 sides, has perhaps been of a migratory 
 turn and has supported himself on clams 
 at little restaurants ; yet he never dreams 
 of cheapening. Everybody pays royal- 
 ly, cheerily, and with gratification. It 
 is pretty to hear Mr. Dawkins pluming 
 himself to Mr. Hawkins on the enormous 
 magnitude of his bill, and boasting of 
 the discomforts and sufferings of his so- 
 journ. Let not asceticism boast that the 
 saints are all its own : here is a city of 
 mundane martyrs, the victmns of world- 
 liness rejoicing in their torments. 
 
 This picture, if it has any truth in it. 
 
 is a somewhat unflattering one for the 
 American hotel, however favorable for 
 the meek sojourners who make it their 
 Thebaid. Let us, therefore, being neither 
 stuff for saints nor martyrs, see if we 
 cannot find a resort which will afford the 
 cheerfulness, the social variety, the en- 
 tertaining crowd of the national wa- 
 tering-place, and even the spectacle of 
 fashion and opulent splendor, without 
 extortion and without suffering. Now, 
 in prosecuting this search we will test a 
 principle. The principle shall be that 
 the Southern coast has a tendency to be 
 warm, attractive, cheery, hospitable, im- 
 perfectly provisioned, impoverished and 
 slatternly ; the Northern, well-disciplined, 
 calculating, closely-regulated, dear, flinty 
 and skinflinty, and that in direct propor- 
 tion to the distance from centres of pro- 
 vision. We have repeatedly found the 
 Northern landlord dry, civil, cool, capa- 
 ble and extortionate — the Southern, hos- 
 pitable, genial, but practically impotent. 
 Neither of these landlords is precisely 
 comfortable. Now, on the long barom- 
 eter of the coast there must be some spot 
 that is exactly at the fair-weather point, 
 equidistant from wintriness and from sul- 
 triness. If we proceed on the strictest 
 principle of geographical measurement, 
 we find that the great centre of alimen- 
 tation is in the garden region of Penn- 
 sylvania, Delaware and Maryland, and 
 that the chosen resort, equally accessible 
 to the great social emporiums of Phila- 
 
86 
 
 "MAY" IN JUNE. 
 
 delphia and Baltimore, ought to be about 
 where the map-maker prints the name 
 "Cape May." 
 
 Stout Cornehs Mey, who first explored 
 the bay of the Delaware, and defended 
 the channel with a fort, and manned the 
 fort with his callous, sole-leather-breech- 
 
 ed sailors, and left his name to sleep in 
 the Lethean ooze of Cape May, may be 
 conceived as lying asleep, like Rip among 
 the Catskills, upon that extremity of the 
 enormous Jersean peninsula of which he 
 was the godfather. Two hundred and 
 fifty-two years have passed since the fat 
 
 Holland captain set up his "Fort Nas- 
 sau," and grouped about his clean and 
 tidy villagers in the likeness of the Dutch 
 dorp at home. He has slept sound enough 
 since then in the memory of an ungrate- 
 ful continent : let us fancy him sleeping 
 in reality. 
 
 If Cornelis Mey is 
 to be waked by any 
 discord in the world, 
 it ought to be by 
 the sleep -dispelling 
 gong imported by us 
 — worse luck ! — from 
 China. The frightful 
 cymbals are clash- 
 ing on this bright 
 summer day from 
 dozens of hotels : he 
 has heard them in 
 J far Cathay, scaring 
 
 < away with such a 
 ^ din the imaginary 
 
 2 dragon from the sun. 
 I The spirit of Captain 
 
 3 Mey erects itself into 
 i a sitting posture, 
 
 based upon its bulb- 
 ^ ous leather breeches, 
 % and rubs its Leyden 
 z spectacles at the 
 jj strange sight before 
 
 < it. Instead of the 
 3 loneliness of an un- 
 explored bay, bro- 
 ken only by the tub- 
 like boats of the 
 Dutch or the birch- 
 bark gondolas of a 
 few adventurous sav- 
 ages, the navigator 
 beholds a populous 
 and flashing city laid 
 out upon the ocean, 
 whose waters are 
 cut by yachts and 
 steamboats. The city 
 
 is glittering and many-windowed, like a 
 line of palaces. Honest Mey has seen, 
 when he has stolen in among the mer- 
 chant-craft of the Giudecca, the struc- 
 tures of Venice in her splendor as they 
 spread like beaded bubbles along the sea : 
 to his dazzled eye the vision is like Ven 
 
'MAY" IN JUNE. 
 
 87 
 
 ice. " It is a silly dream," says the prac- 
 tical ghost : " even allowing for the lapse 
 of time and the hundred-years' Dutch 
 slumbers which Washington Irving is 
 going to invent, the thing is impossible. 
 
 I know this coast : I sally down from my 
 fort every week when the sailing is good. 
 It is a coast of simple pewter-sand and 
 quicksand. My dame shall scour her 
 porringer into a church-chalice before 
 
 THE OCEAN HOUSE. 
 
 they shall build cities on these beaches." 
 And, much discomfited, the spirit turns 
 to sleep again. 
 
 Cape May City, as viewed from the 
 ocean, is really imposing, and is, we be- 
 lieve, the most elaborate and finished 
 city that has ever been built where there 
 is no rock or coherent foundation, and 
 where the loose sand of the sea-shore 
 stretches up to the line of houses. At 
 least, we have never seen, and know not 
 where to point out, a town of so much 
 architectural pretension laid out loose, as 
 it were, on the sands. To say, however, 
 that the ponderous edifices everywhere 
 
 around are strewn merely on the sand, 
 like beached boats, would of course not 
 be literally correct. When preparations 
 were made, some seven years ago, to 
 plant the foundations of the largest of 
 these structures — the Stockton House — 
 some careful diggings were undertaken 
 which thoroughly exposed the nature of 
 the substrata. The geological results 
 are to be seen in glass tubes in the hall 
 of the Stockton, indicating the successive 
 strata to a vastly greater depth than is 
 reached in laying the foundations of a 
 house. The situation, being to the east- 
 ward of the older buildings, was distrust- 
 
88 
 
 'A/AY" IN JUNE. 
 
 ed by many builders: it was low and 
 boggy, with a landscape of salt marshes 
 into which it seemed that any weighty 
 building would sink as a stone sinks into 
 snow. Digging revealed, however, at a 
 small depth, not indeed a ledge of stone 
 — you would bore many a score of feet 
 without reaching much of that — but a 
 deep bed of firm, tenacious clay — a solid 
 
 CAPE MAY LIGH THOUSE. 
 
 foundation of Nature's eternal, unbaked 
 brick. Sinking the foundation to this 
 stratum, the vast hotel was imbedded on 
 the unyielding clay ; and you may walk 
 through any of the four hundred cham- 
 bers of the Stockton and see whether 
 the plastering has cracked or there are 
 any other indications of settling. 
 
 It is the rattle and clash from the 
 Stockton which we imagine to have 
 principally evoked the stolid Dutch spirit 
 of the explorer from its long rest. The 
 Stockton is a triumphant and glorious 
 type of the native American caravanserai, 
 with its discomforts diminished as nearly 
 to zero as possible, and its undeniable 
 conveniences gathered into one power- 
 ful combination. It is not in this beauti- 
 ful palazzo that the American tourist will 
 learn to be discontented or to quarrel with 
 his accommodation?. 
 
 The company at the Stockton, as rep- 
 resented on some "heavy day" at the 
 
 close of June, when the four hundred 
 guest - chambers are emptied into the 
 court and piazzas, their waistcoats well 
 filled from a generous table, and the 
 music of Dodsworth's band gently tick- 
 ling their ears, are as contented a com- 
 pany as can be found in any American 
 hotel. They have been fed with choice 
 provisions from one of the richest mar- 
 kets in the world, served in their 
 prime. They have been lodged 
 in pretty rooms fitted with wal- 
 nut furniture. The mattresses 
 have been springy and devoid 
 of lumps. The dining-room is a 
 rich flower-garden, where crys- 
 tal and silver perennially bloom 
 on beds of soft rich tablecloth : 
 warm relays of delicate food, 
 appreciated by pursy, unctuous 
 gourmands, succeed each other 
 day and evening. The balls are 
 gay and crowded, the society is 
 good. Generals and bankers and 
 railroad-managers, the " elect" of 
 American life, have jostled each 
 other in the monstrous saloons all 
 day and every day, and the floors 
 have been studiously swept with 
 the best clothes of the wives and 
 daughters of these magnates. So, 
 when pay-day comes, and the tourist re- 
 sumes his progress toward the successive 
 royal stations of Long Branch, Saratoga, 
 Niagara, Newport and the White Moun- 
 tains, he is a contented and cheerfully- 
 paying tourist, feeling that whatever ex- 
 tortions are in store for him farther North, 
 Cape May has given him the equivalent 
 of his money. It is a forced and facti- 
 tious ideal of comfort, perhaps. Corne- 
 lls Mcy, in his dreams of improvement, 
 may think of nothing better than curds- 
 and-whey served by a lymphatic maid 
 in wooden shoes, or than Rhenish wine 
 drunk tete-a-tete with a similar maid out 
 of deep Venice glasses, as you see in the 
 pictures of Jan Steen and Van der Heist. 
 But increasing civilization brings its re- 
 sponsibilities, and the nineteenth cen- 
 tury demands Dutch cleanliness, Venice 
 glass and Roman luxury, all at once. 
 
 A marine city sets its best front toward 
 the ocean ; so our imaginary vision of 
 
'MAY" IN JUNE. 
 
 the resuscitated godfather of Cape May 
 had best be taken from seaward. The 
 problem of the builder in such a loca- 
 tion is to make everything face toward 
 the water. Visitors are firmly persuaded 
 that all rooms can be made to face the 
 beach, and the architect who could build 
 
 in the fashion of a honeycomb, with 
 every cell opening directly upon the sea- 
 view, would be the man for the guests' 
 approval and the landlord's money. Ac- 
 cordingly, every window is cut, every 
 balcony is opened, every cornice and 
 carving is moulded, every cupola lifted. 
 
 WAITING FOR I HE TRAIN. 
 
 every flagstaff raised, in the direction of 
 the water : you would think the fishes, 
 and not the biped inhabitants of solid 
 earth, were to be the critics and judges 
 of all this carpentry and effect. One of 
 our engravings gives this view : it is the 
 view the sea sees. On the right of the 
 picture you are struck with an immense 
 pile of building, stretching out two gigan- 
 tic wings toward the shore, in whose em- 
 brace is sketched a delicate little sum- 
 mer-house. This is the Stockton, im- 
 proved with the addition of the contem- 
 plated extension, which the artist assur- 
 edly never beheld save with the eye of 
 faith : even without this lateral increment, 
 however, Stockton is an architectural Ti- 
 tan. Except the giddy palace-fronts of 
 Saratoga, which strike the eye with all 
 the amazement and incredulity of a 
 scene-painter's hollow screens, we do not 
 know where a more imposing pleasure- 
 structure can be found. It is American 
 
 to the core — sumptuous, boastful, daring, 
 soaring, expansive: it is "home" mul- 
 tiplied by the hundred— a city rather 
 than an inn. When we think that such 
 a Palace of the Caesars is meant for a 
 twelve weeks' occupation merely, and 
 that for the greater part of the year it 
 nods in costly uselessness, a burden and 
 an expense, our mind is staggered at the 
 thought of so much solid preparation 
 and so much waste. This giant is alive 
 for a short summer merely, after which 
 the life retires from its vast bones, and it 
 frowns upon the waste, as idle as a tem- 
 ple at Passtum. 
 
 Well, this vast building is seven years 
 old, as we said: it is firmly based upon 
 a thick bed of solid clay, as we said. 
 The tall balconies which form a cage 
 around it have pillars no less than fifty- 
 four feet high, extending from the eaves 
 to the ground. Its sides are two hun- 
 dred and fifty feet long. Its plan em- 
 
9° 
 
 "MAY" IN JUNE. 
 
 DRIVE ON THE BEACH. 
 
 braces three sides of a hollow square, 
 enclosing a garden. Its situation, on the 
 easterly side of the town, is somewhat 
 low and boggy, or was when the hotel was 
 first laid out, but improvement has rem- 
 edied that evil. It accommodates fifteen 
 hundred lodgers at once, and, we be- 
 lieve, assures every individual of the 
 fifteen hundred that his room "has a 
 fine view of the ocean." To afford the 
 guests of this hotel a grateful drinking- 
 water, completely divested of brackish 
 impurity, extraordinary pains were taken. 
 An artesian well was sunk, and the borer 
 did not stop at any cheap success : the 
 test-tubes in the hall, to which we have 
 alluded, show the extraordinary variety 
 of sandy and clayey strata through which 
 the drill pursued its progress. At va- 
 rious depths veins of water were struck, 
 more or less satisfactory, but not until 
 the eightieth foot was reached did they 
 find that excellent, soft and limpid wa- 
 ter with which the guests of the house 
 now refiesh themselves. 
 
 Such is the easternmost and right-hand 
 house in the picture. Next is seen the 
 Columbia House, just in the middle of 
 the view, whose frontage is intersected by 
 the mast of the little sailing-vessel rep- 
 resented by the artist: Mr. Bolton, who 
 keeps this favorite old hostelry, is known 
 to interior Pennsylvanians through the 
 
 hotel called after his own name in Har- 
 risburg. Next to the left, at the corner 
 of the street, comes the cubical bulk 
 of the Atlantic, a serviceable, free-and- 
 hearty house, notable for being open all 
 the year round, of which the intelligent 
 young proprietor, Mr. McMakin, is made 
 the personal friend and confidant of most 
 of his guests. To the left of the Atlantic 
 is seen the long fa9ade of Congress Hall, 
 a house able to entertain two thousand 
 guests. Quite at the edge of the picture, 
 and the last large structure represented 
 this side the lighthouse, is the Sea-Breeze 
 Hotel, the great wholesale depot of the 
 excursion-parties. Such is the chain of 
 first-class houses fronting immediately 
 on the sea, to which must be added the 
 Ocean House and United States Hotel, 
 not clearly made out in the picture, with 
 the West End Hotel and a cloud of re- 
 spectable select establishments merging 
 insensibly into boarding-houses. Over 
 the clustered city is seen the white flash 
 of Delaware Bay. 
 
 Such a number of important hostelries 
 in a row speaks highly for the prosperity 
 of Cape May ; and the visitor who takes 
 the height of the season may be sure 
 that he will find himself at no dull place 
 of refuge. The homesick sailor, wear- 
 ing round the Jersey point and coming 
 close to the shore on a fine evening, as 
 
'MAY" IN JUNE. 
 
 91 
 
 he passes first Henlopen light and then 
 Cape May light on his northward course, 
 has this dazzling glimpse of sociability 
 and human comradeship to greet him ere 
 he bears eastwardly to avoid the land 
 under the increasing hazard of the dark: 
 what he sees is the flashing lines of 
 festal lights from a continuous row of 
 monstrous four-floored buildings, seem- 
 ing to touch each other, from the Sea- 
 Breeze all the way to the Stockton, the 
 nightly saturnalia of the first named, 
 with crash of drum and blare of horns, 
 reaching even out to sea across the roar 
 of the surf; the immense lateral extent 
 of Congress Hall and the Stockton House 
 defined with threads of light like the 
 lamps of St. Peter's on Easter evening ; 
 the glow of suffused illumination from a 
 whole busy city extending over these more 
 definite points of brilliancy in a way 
 wholly surprising for a lonely, exposed 
 cape in the sea ; then, dominating the 
 entire group, the dilating and shrinking 
 splendor of the lighthouse, a beacon of 
 the first order, whose monstrous lan- 
 tern intelligently flares up and darkens 
 through the minutes of the night. 
 
 Cape Island City — this is, we believe, 
 the official name — is an old settlement 
 
 and a permanent centre of business. In 
 winter it is a little, frugal, close-girded 
 burg of fifteen hundred souls, who go to 
 church and pay their taxes, and support 
 a couple of papers, and read the news 
 about the legislature at Trenton, just like 
 any other limited community in a some- 
 what lonely retirement : it is not till June 
 that they awaken to a sense of the capa- 
 bilities of existence, and begin to plan 
 for utilizing the summer stranger accord- 
 ing to their several professions. Cape 
 May is one of those amphibious settle- 
 ments, growing from little to more, that 
 never seem to have had a beginning. It 
 is known to have been a recognized sea- 
 bathing resort as far back as the war of 
 18 12, from contemporary records of the 
 cuttings-up of officers from the hostile 
 fleet moored in the bay, who visited the 
 place and partook of its amusements, to 
 the damage of susceptible hearts lodged 
 in the short-waisted gowns of that period. 
 Strange old sloops and batteaux used in 
 those times to move slowly down the 
 Delaware, bearing eager Philadelphians 
 on pleasure bent. Other sojourners would 
 drive miserably down in their dearborns, 
 dragged by tired nags through the inter- 
 minable sandy road from Camden. On 
 
 PROMENADE UN THE BEACH. 
 
•A/AV" IN JUNE. 
 
 the adoption of steam for navigation, a 
 modest steamboat was conducted by Mr. 
 Wilmon Whilldin, and cut its way down 
 the long Delaware in what was deemed 
 a fleet and stylish manner, greatly im- 
 proving the prosperity of the place. The 
 customs of those earlier times were very 
 primitive and democratic. Large excur- 
 
 sion-parties of gay girls and festive gen- 
 tlemen would journey together, engaging 
 the right to occupy Atlantic Hall, a deso- 
 late barn of a place, fifty feet square, 
 whose proprietor was Mr. Hughes. Then, 
 while the straggling villagers stared, these 
 cargoes of mischief-makers would bear 
 down upon the ocean, ducking and splash- 
 
 ing in old suits of clothes brought in their 
 carpet-sacks, and gathering the condi- 
 tions of a fine appetite. The major- 
 domo of Atlantic Hall, one Mackenzie, 
 would send out to see what neighbor had 
 a sheep to sell : the animal found, all 
 the visitors of the male sex would turn 
 to and help him dress it. Meantime, 
 parties of foragers 
 would go out among 
 the farmers around, 
 ravaging the neigh- 
 borhood for Indian 
 corn. When the mut- 
 ton was cooked and 
 the corn boiled, an 
 appetite would have 
 accumulated suf- 
 ficient to make these 
 viands seem like the 
 ambrosia of Olympus. 
 Those were fine, 
 heartsome times, and 
 when our predeces- 
 sors at Cape May 
 went down for a lark, 
 they meant it and 
 they had it. At night, 
 when dead-tired after 
 the fiddling and the 
 contra - dances, the 
 barn - like hall was 
 partitioned off into 
 two sleeping - rooms 
 by a drapery of 
 sheets. The maids 
 ■^^^a slept tranquilly on 
 
 1^^ [ one side the curtain, 
 
 the lads on the other. 
 Successive days 
 brought other sports 
 — fishing in the clum- 
 sy boats, rides in hay- 
 wagons over the deep 
 '• white roads, the end- 
 
 less variety being sup- 
 plied, after all, by the bathing, which 
 was always the same and ever new. 
 These primitive bivouacs were succeed- 
 ed by a steady service of steamers on 
 the Delaware and the erection of sub- 
 stantial and civilized hotels. The long 
 boat-ride, beginning at Philadelphia in 
 the early morning, and turning out the 
 
"MAY" IN JUNE. 
 
 93 
 
 sun scorched passengers at the landing 
 on the bay about sunset, to be rattled 
 along in wild rustic stages to the hotels, 
 was a torture of twenty years ago re- 
 membered freshly by many a frequenter 
 of Cape May. A grand hotel edifice, 
 the Mount Vernon, was put up in 1856, 
 but soon burned down. The railroad 
 was built in 1863, and has now merged 
 into the possession of the world-compel- 
 ling Pennsylvania Central : it delivers its 
 passengers from Philadelphia in about 
 three hours. There is now no trouble, 
 no fatigue, no vexation about luggage, 
 but the languid summer traveler glides 
 almost unconsciously from Market street 
 wharf directly to the door of the hotel he 
 may have chosen. 
 
 But why, after all, do the experienced 
 among tourists choose Cape May ? What 
 is the attraction which draws such hordes 
 of the knowing ones to the utmost ex- 
 tremity of the flat, barren plain of New 
 Jersey ? Apart from accessibility, the 
 reasons are the regular excellence of the 
 bathing and the marvelous configuration 
 of the beach. The latter is a broad 
 natural street, as regular as a ball- 
 room floor, packed and beaten by the 
 waves into a marble-like solidity : its 
 slope being so gentle, it becomes at low 
 water a very broad road, along whose 
 perfect surface you may drive for miles, 
 from the lighthouse at the point to Pov- 
 erty Beach, then return and do it all over 
 again on a macadam freshly smoothed 
 by the rollers since you passed over it 
 before. Napoleon and the ancient Latins 
 were capital road-builders, but they never 
 laid out anything so beautiful as this wide 
 and glossy Appian Way, over which 
 when you drive you are in fact driving 
 upon a polished table of the closest, most 
 minute and most regularly laid Roman 
 mosaic. The breakers advance, driving 
 their long steely blades under the car- 
 riage - wheels, and then stream seaward 
 again, leaving your road a mirror, in 
 which the broken colors of the sunset 
 or the passing storm are reflected. To 
 ride on good horses along this beach 
 with a fair and skillful equestrian, while 
 the crescent moon hangs glassed at 
 your feet, to be broken by every fall of 
 
 the moon-shaped hoof, and the pouring 
 waves murmur eternally of constancy 
 and sorrow at your side, and the way 
 grows lonelier and lonelier toward the 
 utter desolation of Poverty Beach, — is 
 an experience not easily matched. The 
 sand is unsurpassable, as we have said, 
 and for the romantic and the poetical it 
 still exists as a stupendous roadway ; but 
 in our artificial civilization there is always 
 found good reason for replacing the mas- 
 terpieces of Nature with the contrivances 
 of art. Although a hard beach is in its 
 way inviting to the horse, and is excel- 
 lent for an equestrian saunter, yet it is 
 not good for rapid driving or for crowds. 
 Its dampness and peculiar consistency 
 exert an influence of suction that is some- 
 what tiring to the hoof; and, in fine, the 
 penalty of increasing prosperity is that a 
 human work must supersede the divine 
 one. For this reason the proprietors 
 have put up the costly artificial boulevard 
 which now extends along the shore, just 
 above high-water, for a mile or more in 
 front of the most elegant part of the 
 town. It is the Chiaja of Cape May — 
 the rendezvous of costly equipages and 
 staring dandies and well-groomed hack- 
 neys. It is what an Englishman would 
 call the Ladies' Mile. For exercise on 
 this roadway, Allison Naylor, the livery- 
 stable keeper from Washington, will fur- 
 nish the most dashing teams at the short- 
 est notice, with fine horses and liveried 
 drivers if required. By his aid the jew- 
 eler's clerk, coming down with his year's 
 savings, is enabled for a few days to cut 
 as great a swell as the real aristocrat, 
 and by a judicious expenditure and an 
 exertion of that perfect manner which 
 always makes an American jeweler seem 
 a prince in disguise, may have his day 
 with the proudest, and possibly fascinate 
 an heiress before the season is over. 
 
 The society of Cape May is based es- 
 sentially upon the society of Philadelphia 
 and of Baltimore. Before the civil war 
 it was the loadstone collecting the finest 
 sweepings from the bluest-blooded fam- 
 ilies of literally the whole South. Those 
 prosperities have succumbed now, except 
 in the case of Baltimore, which still re- 
 tains its wealth and prestige, and Wash- 
 
94 
 
 'MAY" IN JUNE. 
 
 ington, whose composite population con- 
 tinues to furnish a large accession everv 
 summer to the spot. The visits of mil- 
 itary organizations (such as the Fifth Ma- 
 ryland Regiment, which sturdily camped 
 out a thousand strong on the flats near 
 the gasworks) are looked to as affording 
 the brightest hopes of fun and flirting. 
 Among the bands which have made 
 night vocal and regulated the dancing 
 have been the Annapolis Naval School 
 Band, whose good musical training and 
 decorous behavior have attracted the 
 kindest notice. The musicians employ- 
 ed by the hotels are always the best pro- 
 curable, under leaders of acknowledged 
 merit. Dodsworth's, as we mentioned, 
 plays at the Stockton House ; an orches- 
 tra of over a dozen pieces, under Simon 
 and Mark Hassler, is among the attrac- 
 tions of Congress Hall ; Bastert's band 
 enlivens the Columbia House ; and there 
 is a torrent of music, only too well in- 
 tentioned, inspiring the perpetual dances 
 at the Excursion House. 
 
 The bath here is of Nature's best. 
 The slope of the beach is so gentle and 
 so perfectly regular to an indefinite dis- 
 tance out under water that it turns up 
 the breakers in long even curls with the 
 precision almost of machinery. After a 
 plunge here, Newport and Atlantic City 
 seem tame and millpond-like, while Long 
 Branch is too savagely precipitous and 
 • comfortless to enter into competition. 
 From this circumstance. Cape May is a 
 bathing-place where people bathe. The 
 habit is a regular one with the frequent- 
 ers of all the houses, and the fashionable 
 virgins who come with thoughts but of 
 lily-white and rouge-vinegar are caught 
 by the wholesome infection and adopt 
 Nature's cosmetics instead. Coming to 
 puff, they remain to bathe. The gentle- 
 men assist them at the bath, in the whole- 
 some American fashion, in toilettes that 
 admit of plenty of dandyism, as those 
 of the ladies do of coquetry. 
 
 The sport here is very good. Woodcock 
 in summer, curlew and red -head and 
 black-head duck, plover, sea-pigeon and 
 Canada goose, may be shot abundantly 
 in the surrounding country. For fish- 
 ing, a boat may be hired at Schelling- 
 er's Landing, with every chance of good 
 luck at bluefish, called here snapping 
 mackerel, and reaching a weight some- 
 times of seventeen pounds : a party of 
 five caught eighty lately on one bright 
 day, trolling for them with a line, a big 
 hook and a bait of a glittering spoon as 
 the boat dashed fast through the water. 
 The " Cape May goody," a delicious salt- 
 water fish the size of a perch ; the " spot," 
 with its gill marked apparently with a 
 wafer ; the blackfish ; the thrumming- 
 noised drumfish, inhabitant of the surf, 
 and other local prizes, are captured in 
 quantities at the Cape. 
 
 Two topics are of too recent a nature 
 for consideration in this article. One is 
 the lately-projected town of Sea Grove, 
 a mile or two west of Cape May City, 
 where the invalid may recuperate, or the 
 strong enjoy the many opportunities at 
 command for recreation from the fatigues 
 and trials of business. The ground is 
 so situated that sojourners there will en- 
 joy sea or bay breeze from whatever 
 quarter the wind blows, unless it comes 
 from the north-east, a quarter whence 
 the wind seldom, if ever, prevails at that 
 portion of our coast. There is a hotel 
 at Sea Grove, and a large rustic pavilion 
 for religious and other meetings. 
 
 The other topic is this summer's yacht- 
 race, got up in imitation of the exciting 
 one to Five Fathom Bank on the 5th. of 
 July, 1871, when the Sappho, owned by 
 William P. Douglas, won the Benson cup 
 and citizens' prize — Commodore Osgood, 
 owner of the next boat, the Columbia, 
 gracefully withdrawing his protest on ac- 
 count of the Sappho's having shifted her 
 ballast without notice forty-eight hours 
 before. 
 
A NEW ATLANTIS, 
 
 THE New Year's debts are paid, the May- 
 day moving is over and settled, and still 
 a remnant of money is found sticking to the 
 bottom of the old marmalade pot. Where 
 shall we go ? 
 
 There is nothing like the sea. Shall it be Newport ? 
 
 But Newport is no longer the ocean pure and deep, in the rich severity of its 
 sangre azul. We want to admire the waves, and they drag us off to inspect the 
 last new villa : we like the beach, and they bid us enjoy the gardens, brought every 
 spring in lace-paper out of the florist's shop. We like to stroll on the shore, bare- 
 
 95 
 
96 
 
 A A'Eir ATLANTIS. 
 
 footed if we choose, and Newport 
 is become an affair of toilette and 
 gold-mounted harness, a bathing- 
 place where people do everything 
 but bathe. 
 
 Well, Nahant, then, or Long 
 Branch ? 
 
 Too slow and too fast. Besides, 
 we have seen them. 
 
 Suppose we try the Isles of 
 Shoals ? Appledore and Duck Isl- 
 and and White Island, now ? Or 
 Nantucket, or Marblehead ? 
 
 Too stony, and nothing in par- 
 ticular to eat. You ask for fish, 
 and they give you a rock. 
 
 In truth, under that moral and 
 physical dyspepsia to which we 
 bring ourselves regularly every 
 summer, the fine crags of the north 
 become just the least bit of a bore. 
 They necessitate an amount of 
 heroic climbing under the com- 
 mand of a sort of romantic and do- 
 nothing Girls of the Period, who 
 sit about on soft shawls in the lee 
 of the rocks, and gather their shells 
 and anemones vicariously at the 
 expense of your tendon achilles. 
 We know it, for we have suffered. 
 We calculate, and are prepared to 
 prove, that the successful collection 
 of a single ribbon of ruffled sea- 
 weed, procured in a slimy hay- 
 stack of red dulse at the beck of 
 one inconsiderate girl, who is keep- 
 ing her brass heels dry on a safe 
 and sunny ledge of the Purgatory 
 at Newport, may require more men- 
 tal calculation, involve more an- 
 guish of equilibrium, -and encou- 
 rage more heartfelt secret profan- 
 ity than the making of a steam- 
 engine or the writing of a proposal. 
 
 No, no, we would admire noth- 
 ing, dare nothing, do nothing, but 
 only suck in rosy health at every 
 pore, pin our souls out on the holly 
 hedge to sweeten, and forget what 
 we had for breakfast. Uneasy 
 daemons that we are all winter, 
 toiling gnomes of the mine and the 
 forge — "O spent ones of a work- 
 day age" — can we not for one 
 
A NEW ATLANTIS. 
 
 97 
 
 brief month in our year be 
 Turks ? 
 
 Our doctors, slowly acquiring a 
 little sense, are changing their 
 remedies. Where the cry used to 
 be "drugs," it now is "hygiene." 
 But hygiene itself might be 
 changed for the better. We can 
 imagine a few improvements in 
 the materia medica of the future. 
 Where the physician used to order 
 a tonic for a feeble pulse, he will 
 simply hold his watch thoughtfully 
 for sixty seconds and prescribe 
 "Paris." Where he was wont to 
 recommend a strong emetic, he 
 will in future advise a week's study 
 of the works of art at our National 
 Capital. For lassitude, a donkey- 
 ride up Vesuvius. For color- 
 blindness, a course of sunrises from 
 the Rigi. For deafness, Wachtel 
 in his song of "Di quella Pira." 
 For melancolia, Naples. For fe- 
 ver, driving an ice-cart. But when 
 the doctor's most remunerative 
 patient comes along, the pursy 
 manufacturer able to afford the 
 luxury of a bad liver, let him con- 
 sult the knob of his cane a moment 
 and order "Atlantic City." 
 
 — Because it is lazy, yet stimu- 
 lating. Because it is unspoilt, yet 
 luxurious. Because the air there 
 is filled with iodine and the sea 
 with chloride of sodium. Because, 
 with a whole universe of water, 
 Atlantic City is dry. Because of 
 its perfect rest and its infinite 
 horizons. 
 
 But where and what is Atlantic 
 City ? It is a refuge thrown up by 
 the continent-building sea. Fash- 
 ion took a caprice, and shook it 
 out of a fold of her flounce. A 
 railroad laid a wager to find the 
 shortest distance from Penn's 
 treaty-elm to the Atlantic Ocean : 
 it dashed into the water, and a 
 City emerged from its freight-cars 
 as a consequence of the manoeu- 
 vre. Almost any kind of a parent- 
 age will account for Atlantis. It 
 is beneath shoddy and above me- 
 7 
 
98 
 
 A NEJV A TLANTIS. 
 
 diocrity. It is below Long Branch and 
 higher up than Cape May. It is different 
 from any watering-place in the world, yet 
 its strong individuality might have been 
 planted in any other spot ; and a few 
 years ago it was nowhere. Its success 
 
 is due to its having nothing importunate 
 about it. It promises endless sea, sky, 
 liberty and privacy, and, having made 
 you at home, it leaves you to your de- 
 vices. 
 
 Two of our best marine painters in 
 
 
 ST I S 
 
 ^r»«.^,nir^— ""^'^^SS HALL 
 
 i s ^ 3 s s .' I ^ ? 4 3 n 
 
 4MMii 
 
 'Wi''«3l^3't"'a''!2'll9'ala|l3W 
 
 CONGRESS HALL. 
 
 their works offer us a choice of coast- 
 landscape. Kensett paints the bare stiff 
 crags, whitened with salt, standing out 
 of his foregrounds like the clean and 
 hungry teeth of a wild animal, and look- 
 ing hard enough to have worn out the 
 painter's brush with their implacable 
 enamel. From their treeless waste ex- 
 tends the sea, a bath of deep, pure 
 color. All seems keen, fresh, beautiful 
 and severe : it would take a pair of stout 
 New England lungs to breathe enjoy- 
 ably in such an air. That is the north- 
 ern coast. Mr. William Richards gives 
 us the southern — the landscape, in fact, 
 of Atlantic City. In his scenes we have 
 the infinitude of soft silver beach, the 
 rolling tumultuousness of a boundless 
 sea, and twisted cedars mounted like 
 toiling ships on the crests of undulating 
 sand-hills. It is the charm, the dream, 
 the power and the peace of the Desert. 
 
 And here let us be indulged with a few 
 words about a section of our great con- 
 tinent which has never been sung in 
 rhyme, and which it is almost a matter 
 of course to treat disparagingly. A 
 cheap and threadbare popular joke as- 
 signs the Delaware River as the eastern 
 boundary of the United States of Amer- 
 ica, and defines the out landers whose 
 homes lie between that current and the 
 Atlantic Ocean as foreigners, Iberians, 
 and we know not what. Scarcely more 
 of an exile was Victor Hugo, sitting on 
 the shores of Old Jersey, than is the 
 denizen of New Jersey when he brings 
 his half-sailor costume and his beach- 
 learned manners into contrast with the 
 thrift and hardness of the neighboring 
 commonwealth. The native of the al- 
 luvium is another being from the native 
 of the great mineral State. But, by the 
 very reason of this difference, there is a 
 
A NEW A TLANTIS. 
 
 99 
 
 strange soft charm that comes over our 
 thoughts of the younger Jersey when we 
 have done laughing at it. That broad, 
 pale peninsula, built of shells and crys- 
 tal-dust, which droops toward the south 
 
 like some vast tropical leaf, and spreads 
 its two edges toward the fresh and salt 
 waters, enervated with drought and sun- 
 shine — that flat leaf of land has charac- 
 teristics that are almost Oriental. To 
 
 viiV^'^ ^«s^y ,„.-.-> — ---azL'Pifj 
 
 MR. RICHARD WRIGHT's COTTAGE 
 
 make it the sea heaved up her breast, 
 and showed the whitened sides against 
 which her tides were beating. To walk 
 upon it is in a sense to walk upon the 
 bottom of the ocean. Here are strange 
 marls, the relics of infinite animal life, 
 into which has sunk the lizard or the 
 dragon of antiquity — the gigantic Had- 
 rosaiirus, who cranes his snaky throat 
 at us in the museum, swelling with the 
 tale of immemorial times when he wel- 
 tered here in the sunny ooze. The coun- 
 try is a mighty steppe, but not deprived 
 of trees : the ilex clothes it with its set, 
 dark foliage, and the endless woods 
 of pine, sand-planted, strew over that 
 boundless beach a murmur like the sea. 
 The edibles it bears are of the quaintest 
 and most individual kinds : the cran- 
 berry is its native condiment, full of in- 
 dividuality, unknown to Europe, beau- 
 tiful as a carbuncle, wild as a Tartar 
 belle, and rife with a subacid irony that 
 
 lb like the wit of Heine. 
 
 Hei c IS the paiate doia t , 
 with evei> kind of swect-fleshcd gourd 
 that loves to gad along the sand — the 
 citron in its carved net, and the enor- 
 mous melon, carnation -colored within 
 and dark-green to blackness outside. 
 The peaches here are golden-pulped, as 
 if trying to be oranges, and are richly 
 bitter, with a dark hint of prussic acid, 
 fascinating the taste like some enchant- 
 ress of Venice, the pursuit of whom is 
 made piquant by a fancy that she may 
 poison you. The farther you penetrate 
 this huge idle peninsula, the more its 
 idiosyncrasy is borne in on your mind. 
 Infinite horizons, "an everlasting wash 
 of air," the wild pure warmth of Arabia, 
 and heated jungles of dwarf oaks bal- 
 ancing balmy plantations of pine. Then, 
 toward the sea, the wiry grasses that 
 dry into "salt hay" begin to dispute 
 possession with the forests, and finally 
 supplant them : the sand is blown into 
 coast-hills, whose crests send off into 
 every gale a foam of flying dust, and 
 which themselves change shape, under 
 pressure of the same winds, with a slow- 
 er imitation of the waves. Finally, by 
 
A NE W A TLANTIS. 
 
 the gentlest of transitions, the deserts 
 and the quicksands become the ocean. 
 
 The shore melts into the sea by a net- 
 work of creeks and inlets, edging the 
 territory (as the flying osprey sees it) 
 with an inimitable lacework of azure 
 
 waters ; the pattern is one of looping 
 channels with oval interstices, and the 
 dentellated border of the commonwealth 
 resembles that sort of lace which was 
 made by arranging on glass the food of 
 a silk-spinning worm : the creature ate 
 
 THE SENATE HOUSE 
 
 and wove, havmg voi acity alw1^ b 
 befoie him and Fme Ait behind 
 him. Much of the solider part 
 of the State is made of the materials 
 which enter into glass-manufacture : a 
 mighty enchanter might fuse the greater 
 portion of it into one gigantic goblet. A 
 slight approximation to this work of 
 magic is already being carried on. The 
 tourist who has crossed the lagoons of 
 Venice to see the fitful lights flash up 
 from the glass-furnaces of Murano, will 
 find more than one locality here where 
 leaping lights, crowning low banks of 
 sand, are preparing the crystal for our 
 infant industries in glass, and will re- 
 mind him of his hours by the Adriatic. 
 Every year bubbles of greater and great- 
 er beauty are being blown in these se- 
 cluded places, and soon we hope to en- 
 rich commerce with all the elegances of 
 latticinio and schmelze, the perfected 
 glass of an American Venice. 
 
 But our business is not with the land, 
 but the sea. Here it lies, basking at 
 our feet, the warm amethystine sea of 
 the South. It does not boom and thun- 
 der, as in the country of the "cold gray 
 stones." On the contrary, saturating 
 itself with sunny ease, thinning its bulk 
 over the shoal flat beach with a succes- 
 sion of voluptuous curves, it spreads 
 thence in distance with strands and belts 
 of varied color, away and away, until 
 blind with light it faints on a prodigious- 
 ly far horizon. Its falling noises are as 
 soft as the sighs of Christabel. Its col- 
 ors are the pale and milky colors of the 
 opal. But ah ! what an impression of 
 boundlessness ! How the silver ribbon 
 of beach unrolls for miles and miles ! 
 And landward, what a parallel sea of 
 marshes, bottoms and dunes ! The 
 
A NE W A TLANTIS. 
 
 sense of having all the kingdoms of the 
 world spread out beneath one, together 
 with most of the kingdoms of the mer- 
 men, has never so come to one's con- 
 sciousness before. And again, what an 
 artist is Nature, with these faint washes 
 and tenderest varied hues — varied and 
 tender as the flames from burning gases 
 -rwhile her highest lights (a painter will 
 understand the 'difficulty of tJiat) are 
 still diaphanous and profound ! 
 
 One goes to the seaside not for pomp 
 and peacock's tails, but for saltness. 
 Nature and a bite of fresh fish. To build 
 a city there that shall not be an insult 
 to the sentiment of the place is a matter 
 of difficulty. One's ideal, after all, is a 
 canvas encampment. A range of solid 
 stone villas like those of Newport, so far 
 as congruity with a watering-place goes, 
 pains the taste like a false note in music. 
 Atlantic City pauses halfway between 
 the stone house and the tent, and erects 
 herself in woodwork. A quantity of 
 bright, rather giddy-looking structures, 
 with much open-work and carved ruf- 
 fling about the eaves and balconies, are 
 poised lightly on the sand, following the 
 course of the two main avenues which 
 lead parallel with the shore, and the 
 series of short, straight, direct streets 
 which leap across them and run eagerly 
 for the sea. They have a low, brooding 
 look, and evidently belong to a class of 
 sybarites who are not fond of staircases. 
 Among them, the great rambling hotel, 
 sprawling in its ungainly length here and 
 there, looks like one of the ordinary tall 
 New York houses that had concluded to 
 lie over on its side and grow, rather than 
 take the trouble of piling on its stories 
 standing. In this encampment of wood- 
 en pavilions is lived the peculiar life of 
 the place. 
 
 We are sure it is a sincere, natural, 
 sensible kind of life, as compared with 
 that of other bathing-shores. Although 
 there are brass bands at the hotels, and 
 hops in the evening, and an unequal 
 struggle of macassar oil with salt and 
 stubborn locks, yet the artificiality is 
 kept at a minimum. People really do 
 bathe, really do take walks on the beach 
 for the love of the ocean, really do pick 
 
 up shells and throw them away again, 
 really do go yachting and crab-catching; 
 and if they try city manners in the even- 
 ing, they are so tired with their honest 
 day's work that it is apt to end in misery. 
 On the hotel piazzas you see beauties that 
 
 THE SHINING SANDS. 
 
 surprise you 
 with exqui- 
 site touches 
 of the warm 
 and languid 
 South. That 
 dark Balti- 
 more girl, 
 
 her hair a constellation of jessamines, is 
 beating her lover's shoulders with her 
 fan in a state of ferocity that you would 
 give worlds to encounter. That pair of 
 proud Philadelphia sisters, statues sculp- 
 tured in peach -pulp and wrapped in 
 gauze, look somehow like twin Muses at 
 the gates of a temple. Whole rows of 
 unmatched girls stare at the sea, deso- 
 late but implacable, waiting for partners 
 equal to them in social position. In such 
 a dearth a Philadelphia girl will turn to 
 her old music-teacher and flirt solemnly 
 with him Tor a whole evening, sooner 
 than involve herself with well-looking 
 young chits from Providence or New 
 York, who may be jewelers' clerks when 
 at home. Yet the unspoiled and fruity 
 beauty of these Southern belles is very 
 striking to one who comes fresh from 
 Saratoga and the sort of upholstered 
 goddesses who are served to him there. 
 Some years ago the Surf House was 
 
A NEW ATLANTIS. 
 
 the finest place of entertainment, but it 
 has now many rivals, taller if not finer. 
 Congress Hall, under the management 
 of Mr. G. W. Hinkle, is a universal fa- 
 vorite, while the Senate House, standing 
 under the shadow of the lighthouse, has 
 the advantage of being the nearest to the 
 beach of all the hotels. Both are am- 
 ple and hospitable hostelries, where you 
 are led persuasively through the Eleusin- 
 ian mystery of the Philadelphia cuisine. 
 Schaufler's is an especial resort of our 
 German fellow-citizens, who may there be 
 seen enjoying themselves in the manner 
 depicted by our artist, while concocting — 
 as we are warned by M. Henri Kowalski 
 — the ambitious schemes which they con- 
 ceal under their ordinary enveloppe de- 
 bonnaire. 
 
 There is another feature of the place. 
 With its rarely fine atmosphere, so tonic 
 and bracing, so free from the depress- 
 ing fog of the North, it is a great sanita- 
 rium. There are seasons when the Penn- 
 sylvania University seems to have bred 
 its wealth of doctors for the express pur- 
 pose of marshaling a dying world to the 
 curative shelter of At- 
 lantic City. The trains 
 are encumbered with the 
 halt and the infiim, who 
 are got out at the doors 
 
 like unwieldy luggage in the arms of 
 nurses and porters. Once arrived, how- 
 ever, they display considerable mobility 
 in distributing themselves through the 
 three or four hundred widely-separated 
 cottages which await them for hire. As 
 you wander through the lanes of these 
 cunning little houses, you catch strange 
 fragments of conversation. Gentlemen 
 living vis-a-vis, and standing with one 
 leg in the grave and the other on their 
 own piazzas, are heard on sunny morn- 
 ings exciting themselves with the mad- 
 dest abuse of each other's doctor. There 
 are large boarding-houses, fifty or more 
 of them, each of which has its contingent 
 of puling valetudinarians. The healthy 
 inmates have the privilege of listening 
 to the symptoms, set forth with that full 
 and conscientious detail not unusual 
 with invalids describing their own com- 
 plaints. Or the sufferers turn their bat- 
 teries on each other. On the verandah 
 of a select boarding-house we have seen 
 a fat lady of forty lying on a bench like 
 a dead harlequin, as she rolled herself 
 in the triangles of a glittering afghan. 
 On a neighboring seat a gouty subject, 
 and a tropical sun pouring on both. 
 
 "Good-morning! You see I am try- 
 
 mg my sun bath I am convinced it 
 
 relieves my spme " The same remark 
 
 has intioduced seven 
 
 morning conversations. 
 
 And my gout has shot 
 
 MR. THOMAS C. HAND'S COTTAGE. 
 
A NEIV ATLANTIS. 
 
 from the index toe to the ring toe. 
 I feared my shpper was damp, and 
 I am roasting it here. But, dear 
 ma'am, I pity you so with your 
 spine ! Tried acupuncture ?" 
 
 The patient probably hears the 
 word as Acapulco. For she an- 
 swers, " No, but I tried St. Augus- 
 tine last winter. Not a morsel of 
 good." 
 
 Among these you encounter 
 sometimes lovely, frail, transparent 
 girls, who come down with cheeks 
 of wax, and go home in two months 
 with cheeks of apple. Or stout gen- 
 tlemen arriving yellow, and going 
 back in due time purple. 
 
 Once a hardened siren of many 
 watering-places, large and bloom- 
 ing, arrived at Atlantic City with 
 her latest capture, a stooping in- 
 valid gentleman of good family in 
 Rhode Island. They boated, they 
 had croquet on the beach, they 
 paced the shining sands. Both of 
 them people of the world and past 
 their first youth, they found an 
 amusement in each other's know- 
 ing ways and conversation that 
 kept them mutually faithful in a 
 kind of mock-courtship. The gen- 
 tleman, however, was evidently 
 only amusing himself with this tra- 
 vesty of sentiment, though he was 
 never led away by the charms of 
 younger women. After a month 
 of it he succeeded in persuading 
 her for the first time to enter the 
 water, and there he assisted her 
 to take the billows in the gallant 
 American fashion. Her intention 
 of staying only in the very edge of 
 the ocean he overruled by main 
 force, playfully drawing her out 
 where a breaker washed partially 
 over her. As the water touched 
 her face she screamed, and raised 
 her arm to hide the cheek that had 
 been wet. She then ran hastily to 
 shore, and her friend, fearing some 
 accident, made haste to rejoin her. 
 His astonishment was great at find- 
 ing one of her cheeks of a ghastly, 
 unhealthy white. Her color had 
 
I04 
 
 A NEW ATLANTIS. 
 
 always been very high. That after- 
 noon she sought him and explained. 
 She was really an invalid, she said 
 calmly, and had recently under- 
 gone a shocking operation for tu- 
 mor. But she saw no reason for 
 letting that interfere with her usual 
 summer life, particularly as she felt 
 youth and opportunity making away 
 from her with terrible strides. Hav- 
 ing a chance to enjoy his society 
 which might never be repeated, 
 fearing lest his rapid disease should 
 carry him away from before her 
 eyes, she had concluded to make 
 the most of time, dissemble her suf- 
 fering, and endeavor to conceal by 
 art the cold bloodlessness of her 
 face. This whimsical, worldly he- 
 roism happened to strike the gentle- 
 man strangely. He was affected to 
 the point of proposing marriage. At 
 the same time he perceived with 
 some amazement that his disease 
 had left him : the curative spell of 
 the region had wrought its enchant- 
 ment upon his system. They were 
 wedded, with roles reversed — he as 
 the protector and she as the invalid 
 — and were truly happy during the 
 eighteen months that the lady lived 
 as his wife. 
 
 There are prettier and more inno- 
 cent stories. Every freckle-nosed 
 girl from the Alleghany valleys who 
 sweeps with her polka-muslin the 
 floors of these generous hotels has 
 an idyl of her own, which she is re- 
 hearsing with young Jefferson Jones 
 or little Madison Addison. In the 
 golden afternoons they ride together 
 —not in the fine turn-outs supplied 
 by the office-clerks, nor yet on horse- 
 back, but in guikless country wa- 
 gons guided by Jersey Jehus, where 
 close propinquity is a delightful ne- 
 cessity. Ten miles of uninterrupted 
 beach spread before them, which 
 the ocean, transformed for the pur- 
 pose into a temporary Haussmann, 
 is rolling into a marble boulevard 
 for their use twice a day. On the 
 hard level the wheels scarcely leave 
 a trace. The ride seems like eter- 
 
A NEW ATLANTIS. 
 
 lO: 
 
 nity, it lapses off so gentle and smooth, I 
 and the landscape is so impressively i 
 similar : everywhere the plunging surf, • 
 the gray sand-hills, the dark cedars with 
 foliage sliced off sharp and flat by the 
 
 keen east wind — their stems twisted like 
 a dishclout or like the olives around 
 Florence. 
 
 Or she goes with Jefferson and Madi- 
 son on a "crabbing" hunt. Out in a 
 
 A SCENE IN FRONT OF SCHAUFLER S HOTEL. 
 
 boat at the "Thoroughfare," near the 
 railroad bridge, you lean over the side 
 and see the dark glassy forms moving 
 on the bottom. It is shallow, and a 
 short bit of string will reach them. The 
 bait is a morsel of raw beefsteak from 
 the butcher's, and no hook is necessary. 
 They make for the titbit with strange 
 monkey-like motions, and nip it with 
 their hard skeleton fingers, trying to tuck 
 it into their mouths; and so you bring 
 them up into blue air, sprawling and 
 astonished, but tenacious. You can put 
 them through their paces where they 
 roost under water, moving the beef 
 about, and seeing them sidle and back 
 on their aimless, Cousin Feenix - like 
 legs : it is a sight to bring a freckle- 
 nosed cousin almost into hysterics. But 
 one day a vivacious girl had committed 
 the offence of boasting too much of her 
 skill in crab-catching, besides being quite 
 unnecessarily gracious to Mr. Jefferson 
 
 Jones. Then Mr. Madison Addison, 
 who must have been reading Plutarch, 
 did a sly thing indeed. The boat having 
 been drawn unnoted into deeper water, 
 a cunning negro boy who was aboard 
 contrived to slide down one side without 
 remark, and the next trophy of the fem- 
 inine chase was a red boiled crab, arti- 
 ficially attached to a chocolate caramel, 
 and landed with mingled feelings by the 
 pretty fisherwoman. Then what a tumult 
 of laughter, feigned anger and becom- 
 ing blushes ! It is said that that crimson 
 shell, carved into a heart-shape of in- 
 correct proportions, is worn over Mr. 
 Jones's diaphragm to this day. 
 
 At the Inlet, which penetrates the 
 beach alongside the lighthouse, is draught 
 for light vessels, and the various kinds 
 of society which focus at Atlantic City 
 may be seen concentrated there on the 
 wharf any of these bright warm days. 
 A gay party of beauties and aristocrats, 
 
io6 
 
 A NEW ATLANTIS. 
 
 with a champagne-basket and hamper 
 of lunch, are starting thence for a sail 
 over to Brigantine Beach. Two gentle- 
 men in flannel, with guns, are urging 
 a little row-boat up toward the interior 
 country. They will return at night laden 
 with rail or reed-birds, with the addition- 
 al burden perhaps of a great loon, shot 
 as a curiosity. Others, provided with 
 fishing-tackle, are going out for flounder. 
 Laughing farewells, waving handker- 
 chiefs and the other telegraphic signs 
 of departure, are all very gay, but the 
 tune may be changed when the great 
 sailing - party comes back, wet and 
 wretched, and with three of the principal 
 beauties limp as bolsters on the gentle- 
 men's hands with sea-sickness. 
 
 Another spirited scene takes place at 
 five in the morning — an hour when the 
 city beauties are abed with all that 
 tenacity of somnolence which character- 
 izes Kathleen Mavourneen in the song. 
 The husbands and brothers, who are 
 due in the city before business hours, are 
 out for a good, royal, irresponsible tum- 
 ble in the surf. There is the great yeasty 
 bath-tub, full of merry dashing figures, 
 dipping the sleek shoulder to the comb- 
 ing wave. On the shore, active human- 
 ities hastily undressing. Then the heav- 
 ens are filled with a new glory, and the 
 dazzling sun leaves his bath at the same 
 time with all these merry roisterers who 
 have shared it with him. He takes up 
 his line of business for the day, and so 
 do the good husbands and brothers, first 
 going through a little ceremony of toilet 
 from which he is exempt. 
 
 Thus does the New Atlantis provide 
 for her republic, holding health to her 
 children with one hand, and shaking 
 from the other an infinity of toys and 
 diversions ; while for those of more 
 thoughtful bent the sea turns without 
 ceasing its ancient pages, written all over 
 with inexhaustible romance. 
 
 The great architect of the city was the 
 Power who graded those streets of im- 
 maculate sand, and who laid out that 
 park of mellow, foam-flowered ocean. 
 Its human founders have done what 
 seemed suitable in providing shelter for 
 a throng of fitful sojourners, not forget- 
 
 ting to put up six neat and modest 
 churches, where suitable praise and ad- 
 oration may be chanted against the 
 chanting of the sea. In several respects 
 the place grows somewhat curiously. 
 For instance, a lawn of turf is made by 
 the simple expedient of fencing off the 
 cattle : the grass then grows, but if the 
 cows get in they pull up the sod by the 
 roots, and the wind in a single season 
 excavates a mighty hollow where the 
 grassy slope was before. So much for 
 building our hopes on sand. An avenue 
 of trees is prepared by the easy plan of 
 thrusting willow-stems into the ground : 
 they sprout directly, and alternate with 
 the fine native cedars and hollies in 
 clothing the streets with shadow. Sev- 
 eral citizens, as Mr. Richard Wright and 
 Mr. Thomas C. Hand, whose handsome 
 cottages are tasteful specimens of our 
 seaside architecture, have been tempted 
 by this facility of vegetable life at At- 
 lantic City to lay out elaborate gardens, 
 which with suitable culture are success- 
 ful. Fine avenues of the best construc- 
 tion lead off to Shell Beach or to the sin- 
 gle hill boasted by the locality. Finally, 
 remembering the claims of the great 
 democracy to a wash-basin, the asdiles 
 invited Tom, Dick and Harry, and set 
 up the Excursion or Sea-View House, 
 with its broad piazzas, its numberless 
 facilities for amusement, and its enor- 
 mous dining-hall, which can be changed 
 on occasion into a Jardin Mabille, with 
 flowers and fountains. 
 
 To a great city all the renovating and 
 exhilarating qualities of sea-breezes and 
 sea-bathing are but as the waters of 
 Tantalus, unless the place which offers 
 these advantages be easy of access. In 
 this respect Atlantic City has for Phila- 
 delphia a superiority over all its rivals. 
 The Camden and Atlantic Railroad, to 
 whose secretary and treasurer, Mr. D. M. 
 Zimmermann, we are indebted for much 
 information, has simply drawn a straight 
 line to the coast, which may be reached 
 in an hour and three-quarters from Vine 
 street wharf. The villages on the route, 
 like the seaside terminus, owe their ex- 
 istence to the road, which is now reaping 
 the reward of a far-sighted enterprise. 
 
10' 
 
 ST. AUCxUSTINE IN 
 
 A SAILOR has just yawned. 
 It is seven o'clock of an April 
 morning such as does not come any- 
 where in the world except at St. Augus- 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 tine or on the Gulf Coast of Florida — a 
 morning woven out of some miraculous 
 tissue which shows two shimmering as- 
 pects, the one stillness, the other glory 
 
 ''irniii,:' 
 
 •i'lii;'''''Ji 
 
 ! I| 
 
 ! Ii'^' I' 
 
 — a morning which mingles infinite re- 
 pose with infinite glittering, as if God 
 should smile in His sleep. 
 
 On such a morning there is but one 
 
 thing to do in St. Augustine : it is to lie 
 thus on the sea-wall, with your legs dang- 
 ling down over the green sea-water, laz- 
 aretto - fashion ; your arms over your 
 
 107 
 
io8 
 
 ST. AUGUSTINE IN APRIL. 
 
 head, caryatid-fashion ; and your eyes 
 gazing straight up into heaven, lover- 
 fashion. 
 
 The sailor's yawn is going to be im- 
 mortal : it is reappearing like the Hindoo 
 
 god in ten thousand avatars of echoes. 
 The sea-wall is now refashioning it into 
 a sea-wall yawn ; the green island over 
 across the water there yawns ; now the 
 brick pillars of the market -house are 
 
 MARKET- HOUSE. 
 
 yawning ; in turn something in the air 
 over beyond the island yawns ; now it 
 is this side's time again. Listen ! In the 
 long pier there, which runs out into the 
 water as if it were a continuation of the 
 hotel-piazza, every separate pile is giv- 
 ing his own various interpretation of the 
 yawn : it runs down them like a fore fin- 
 ger down piano -keys, even to the far- 
 thest one, whose idea of this yawn seems 
 to be that it was a mere whisper. 
 
 The silence here in the last of April 
 does not have many sounds, one ob- 
 serves, and therefore makes the most 
 of any such airy flotsam and jetsam as 
 come its way. 
 
 For the visitors — those of them who 
 make a noise with dancing of nights and 
 with trooping of mornings along the 
 Plaza de la Constitucion — are gone ; the 
 brood of pleasure-boats are all asleep in 
 "the Basin;" practically, the town be- 
 longs for twenty-three hours of each day 
 to the sixteenth century. The twenty- 
 fourth hour, during which the nineteenth 
 claims its own, is when the little loco- 
 motive whistles out at the depot three- 
 
 quarters of a mile off, the omnibus rolls 
 into town with the mail — there are no 
 passengers — the people gather at the 
 post-office, and everybody falls to read- 
 ing the Northern papers. 
 
 Two months ago it was not so. Then 
 the actual present took every hour that 
 everyday had. The St. Augustine, The 
 Florida, The Magnolia — three pleasant 
 hotels — with a shoal of smaller public 
 and private boarding-houses, were filled 
 with people thoroughly alive ; the lovely 
 sailing-grounds around the harbor were 
 all in a white zigzag with races of the 
 yacht club and with more leisurely mazes 
 of the pleasure-boat fleet ; one could not 
 have lain on the sea-wall on one's back 
 without galling disturbance at every mo- 
 ment, and as for a yawn, people do not 
 yawn in St. Augustine in February. 
 
 There are many persons who have 
 found occasion to carp at this sea-wall, 
 and to revile the United States govern- 
 ment for having gone to the great ex- 
 pense involved in its construction, with 
 no other result than that of furnishing a 
 promenade for lovers. But these are ill- 
 
ST. AUGUSTINE IN APRIL. 
 
 109 
 
 advised persons : it is easily demonstra- 
 ble that this last is one of the most le- 
 gitimate functions of government. Was 
 not the encouragement of marriage a di- 
 rect object of many noted Roman laws? 
 And why should not the 
 government of the Uni- 
 ted States "protect" true 
 love as well as pig iron ? 
 Viewed purely from the 
 standpoint of political 
 economy, is not the for- 
 mer full as necessary to 
 the existence of the state 
 as the latter ? 
 
 Whatever may have 
 been the motives of the 
 Federal authorities in 
 buildingit.itsfinalcause, 
 causa causans, is certain- 
 ly love ; and there is not 
 a feature of its construc- 
 tion which does not seem 
 to have been calculated 
 solely with reference to 
 some phase of that pas- 
 sion. It is just wide 
 enough for two to walk 
 side by side, with the 
 least trifle of pressure 
 together ; it is as smooth 
 as the course of true love 
 is )iot, and yet there are 
 certain re-entering angles in it (where the 
 stairways come up) at which one is as apt 
 to break one's neck as one is to be flirted 
 with, and in which, therefore, every man 
 ought to perceive a reminder in stone of 
 either catastrophe ; it has on one side the 
 sea, exhaling suggestions of foam-born 
 Venus and fickleness, and on the other 
 the land, with the Bay street residences 
 wholesomely whispering of settlements 
 and housekeeping bills ; it runs at its very 
 beginning in front of the United States 
 barracks, and so at once flouts War in 
 the face, and pursues its course — happy 
 omen ! — toward old Fort Marion, where 
 strife long ago gave way to quiet warmths 
 of sunlight, and where the wheels of the 
 cannon have become trellises for peace- 
 ful vines; and, finally, it ends — How 
 shall a man describe this spot where it 
 ends? With but a step the promenader 
 
 passes the drawbridge, the moat, the 
 portcullis, edges along the left wall, as- 
 cends a few steps, and emerges into the 
 olil Barbican. What, then, is the Bar- 
 bican ? Nothing : it is an oddly-angled 
 
 SPANISH CATHEDRAL. 
 
 enclosure of gray stone walling round a 
 high knoll where some grass and a blue 
 flower or two appear. Yet it is Love's 
 own trysting-place. It speaks of love, 
 love only : the volubility of its quietude 
 on this topic is as great as Chaucer has 
 described his own : 
 
 Kor he hath told of lovers up and dowrv, 
 
 Moo than Ovide made of mencioun 
 
 In his Epistelles that ben so oldo. 
 
 What schuld I tellen hem, syn they be tolde? 
 
 In youthe he made of Coys and Alcioun, 
 
 And siththe hath he spoke of everych on. 
 
 These noble wyfes, and these lovers eeke. 
 
 Whoso vvole his large volume seeke 
 
 Cleped the seints legendes of Cupide, 
 
 Ther may he see the large woundes wyde 
 
 Of Lucresse, and of Babiloun Tysbee ; 
 
 The sorvve of Dido for the fals Ence ; 
 
 The dree of Philles for hir Demephon ; 
 
 The pleynt of Diane and of Ermyon, 
 
 Of Adrian, and of Ysyphilee; 
 
 The barren yle stondyng in the see ; 
 
 The dreynt Leandere for his fayre Erro ; 
 
 The teeres of Eleyn, and eek the woe 
 
ST. AUGUSTINE IN APRIL. 
 
 Of Bryxseyde, and of Ledomia ; 
 The cruelte of the queen Medea, 
 The litel children hanging by the hals 
 For thilke Jason, that was of love so fals. 
 O Ypermestre, Penollope, and Alceste, 
 Youre wyfhood he comendeth with the beste. 
 But certaynly no worde writeth he 
 Of thilke wikked ensample of Canace, 
 That loved her owen brother synfully ! 
 On whiche cursed stories I seye fy ! 
 
 Thus the Barbican discourses of true 
 love to him who can hear. I am per- 
 
 OLU Cny GATE. 
 
 suaded that Dante and Beatrice, Abelard 
 and Heloise, Petrarch and Laura, Lean- 
 der and Hero, keep their tender appoint- 
 ments here. The Barbican is lovemak- 
 ing already made. It is complete Yes, 
 done in stone and grass. 
 
 The things which one does in St. Au- 
 gustine in P'ebruary become in April the 
 things which one placidly hears that one 
 ought to do, and lies still on one's back 
 on the sea-wall and dangles one's legs. 
 There is the pleasant avenue, for in- 
 stance, by which the omnibus coming 
 from the depot enters the town after 
 crossing the bridge over the San Sebas- 
 tian River. It runs between the grounds 
 of Senator Gilbert on the right (entering 
 town), and the lovely orange -groves, 
 avenues, cedar - hedges and mulberry 
 trees which cluster far back from the 
 road about the residences of Dr. Ander- 
 son and of Mr. Ball. The latter gentle- 
 
 man is one of the well-known firm of 
 Ball, Black & Co. of New York, and has 
 built one of the handsomest residences 
 in Florida, here on the old " Buckingham 
 Smith Place." 
 
 Or there are the quaint courts enclosed 
 with jealous high coquina-walls, and giv- 
 ing into cool rich gardens where lemons, 
 oranges, bananas, Japan plums, figs and 
 all manner of tropic flowers and green- 
 eries hide from the north-east winds 
 and sanctify the old Spanish-built 
 homes. One has to be in St. Augus- 
 tine some time before one realizes, as 
 one passes by these commonplace ex- 
 teriors of whitish houses and whitish 
 walls, the unsuspected beauties stretch- 
 ing back within. 
 
 Then there are the narrow old streets 
 to be explored — Bay street, next the 
 water ; Charlotte, St. George and To- 
 lomato streets running parallel there- 
 to ; or the old rookery of a convent, 
 where the sisters make lace, looking 
 ten times older for the new convent 
 that is going up near by ; or the quaint 
 cathedral on the Plaza to peep into, 
 one of whose bells is said to have 
 once hung on the old chapel beyond 
 the city gates, where the savages mur- 
 dered the priests ; or the Plaza itself 
 — Plaza de la Constitucioii — where 
 certain good and loyal persons burned 
 the effigies of Hancock and Adams some 
 hundred years ago ; or the Confederate 
 monument on St. George stieet, neai 
 Bridge, where one may muse with profit 
 in a Centennial year ; or the City Gate, 
 looking now more like an invitation to 
 enter than a hostile defence as it stands 
 peacefully wide open on the grassy banks 
 of the canal which formerly let the San 
 Sebastian waters into the moat around 
 Fort Marion ; or a trip to the hat-braid- 
 ers' to see if there is any new fantasy in 
 palmetto plaits and grasses ; or an hour's 
 turning over of the photographic views 
 to fill out one's Florida collection ; or a 
 search after a leopard-skin sea- bean. 
 
 Or there is a sail over to the North 
 Beach, or to the South Beach, or to the 
 high sand-dunes from which Governor 
 Oglethorpe once attempted to bombard 
 the Spanish governor Monteano out of 
 
ST. AUGUSTINE IN APRIL. 
 
 the fort ; or to the coquina-quarries and 
 the lighthouses on Anastasia Island, the 
 larger of which latter is notable as being 
 one of the few first-class lighthouses in 
 the country. Or there is an expedition 
 to Matanzas Inlet, where one can dis- 
 embark with a few friends, and have 
 three or four days of 
 camp-life, plentifully 
 garnished with fresh fish 
 of one's own catching. 
 
 Or if one is of a scien- 
 tific turn one may sail 
 down to the Sulphur 
 Spring, which boils up 
 in the ocean some two 
 and a half miles off Ma- 
 tanzas. This spring rises 
 in water one hundred and 
 thirty - two feet deep, 
 though that around the 
 fountain is only about 
 fifty feet ; and its current 
 is so strong that the 
 steamer of the Coast Sur- 
 vey was floated off from 
 over the "boil " of it. It 
 is intermittent, sometimes 
 ceasing to flow, then 
 commencing another 
 ebullition by sending up 
 a cloud of dark-blue sed- 
 iment, which can be seen 
 advancing to the surface. 
 It has been recently ex- 
 plored by a Coast Survey party. Such 
 a spring is mentioned by Maury in a re- 
 port made many years ago to the Navy 
 Department. I am informed that a sim- 
 ilar one exists in the upper St. John's ; 
 and a gentleman told me at Cedar Keys 
 that having applied some years ago to a 
 sponging vessel out in the Gulf for wa- 
 ter, one of the crew took him in a small 
 boat to a spot where he dipped up sev- 
 eral buckets full of fresh water in the 
 midst of the brine. 
 
 Or late in the afternoon one may drive 
 out St. George street, through the gate, 
 and, passing the Protestant burying- 
 ground, ride down a clean road which 
 presently debouches on to the beach of 
 the San Sebastian and aff"ords a charm- 
 ing drive of several miles. Soon after 
 
 getting on this beach one can observe 
 running diagonally from the river in a 
 double row the remains of an old outer 
 line of palisades which connected Fort 
 Moosa with a stockade at the San Se- 
 bastian. This row runs up and enters 
 the grounds of the residence formerly 
 
 ST. GEORGE STREET. 
 
 occupied by George R. Fairbanks, au- 
 thor of an excellent history of Florida. 
 
 Or one may visit Fort Marion, that love- 
 ly old transformation of the seventeenth 
 century into coquina, known in the an- 
 cient Spanish days as Fort San Juan and 
 as Fort San Marco, and peep into the 
 gloomy casemates, the antique chapel, 
 the tower, the barbican ; and mayhap the 
 fine old sergeant from between his side- 
 whiskers will tell of Coacoochee, of Osce- 
 ola, and of the skeletons that were found 
 chained to the walls of the very dungeon 
 in whose cold blackness one is then and 
 there shivering. The old sergeant might 
 add to his stories that of a white prisoner 
 who once dragged out a weary five years 
 in these dungeons, and who was a man 
 remarkable for having probably tasted 
 
ST. AUGUSTINE IN APRIL. 
 
 the sweets of revenge in as full measure 
 as ever fell to human lot. 1 mean Dan- 
 iel McGirth. He was a famous partisan 
 scout in the early part of the first Amer- 
 ican Revolution, but having been whip- 
 ped for disrespect to a superior officer, 
 
 A CAMl' AT MATANZAS. 
 
 escaped, joined the enemy, and there- 
 after rained a series of bloody revenges 
 upon his injurers. He was afterward 
 caught by the Spanish — it is thought 
 because he had joined William Augustus 
 Bowles in his dreadful instigation of the 
 Indians against the Floridian Spaniards 
 — and incarcerated in this old fort for 
 five years. 
 
 — If indeed the fine old sergeant of 
 Fort Marion be still there : it may be 
 that he has ceased to be geimts loci since 
 the Indians arrived. 
 
 For, alas ! and alas ! the old lonesome 
 fort, the sweet old fort, whose pyramids 
 of cannon-balls were only like pleasant 
 reminders of the beauty of peace, whose 
 manifold angles were but warm and 
 sunny nooks for lizards and men to 
 lounge in and dream in, whose ample 
 and ancient moat had converted itself 
 with grasses and with tinv flowers into a 
 
 sacred refuge from trade ana care, known 
 to many a weary soul, — the dear old fort 
 is practically no more : its glories of calm 
 and of solitude have departed utterly 
 away. The Cheyennes, the Kiowas, the 
 Comanches, the Caddoes, and the Arap- 
 ahoes, with their 
 shuffling chains 
 and strange 
 tongues and bar- 
 baric gestures, 
 have frightened 
 the timid swal- 
 low of Romance 
 out of the sweetest 
 nest that he ever 
 built in America. 
 
 It appears that 
 some time about 
 the middle of 1874 
 the United States 
 government an- 
 nounced to the 
 Indians in North- 
 west Texas that 
 they must come in 
 and give a definite 
 account of them- 
 selves, whereupon 
 a large number 
 declared them- 
 selves hostile. 
 Against these four columns of troops 
 were sent out from as many different 
 posts, which were managed so vigorous- 
 ly that in no long time the great majority 
 of the unfriendly Indians either surren- 
 dered or were captured. Some of these 
 were known to have been guilty of atro- 
 cious crimes ; others were men of con- 
 sequence in their tribes ; and it was re- 
 solved to make a selection of the prin- 
 cipal individuals of these two classes, 
 and to confine them in old Fort Marion 
 at St. Augustine. 
 
 And so here they are — " Medicine Wa- 
 ter," a ringleader, along with "White 
 Man," "Rising Bull." "Sharp Bully," 
 "Hailstone" and others, in the terrible 
 murder of the Germain family, and in 
 the more terrible fate of the two Germain 
 girls who were recently recaptured from 
 the Cheyennes; "Come See Him," who 
 was in the murder of the Short survey- 
 
ST. AUGUSTINE IN APRIL. 
 
 113 
 
 ing party; "Soaring Eagle," supposed to 
 have killed the hunter Brown near Fort 
 Wallace; "Big Moccasin" and "Making 
 Medicine," horse -thieves and raiders; 
 "Packer," the murderer of Williams; 
 
 "Mochi" the squaw, identified by the 
 Germain girls as having chopped the 
 head of their murdered mother with an 
 axe. Besides these, who constitute most 
 of the criminals, are a lot against whom 
 
 OLD SPANISH KOKT SAN MARCO, NOW FORT MARION. 
 
 there is no particular charge, but who are 
 confined on the principle that prevention 
 is better than cure. "Gray Beard," one 
 of this latter class of chiefs, leapt from 
 a car-window at Baldwin, Florida, while 
 being conveyed to St. Augustine, and 
 was shot after a short pursuit by one 
 of his guards. "Lean Bear," another, 
 stabbed himself and two of his guards, 
 apparently in a crazy fit, when near 
 Nashville, Tennessee, en route, but has 
 since recovered and been sent to join 
 those in the fort. One of the Kiowas 
 died of pneumonia shortly after arriving 
 at St. Augustine, leaving seventy-three, 
 including two squaws and a little girl, 
 now in confinement. Their quarters are 
 in the casemates within the fort, which 
 have been fitted up for their use. Dur- 
 ing the day they are allowed to move 
 about the interior of the fort, and are 
 sometimes taken out in squads to bathe : 
 at night they are locked up. 
 
 They seem excessively fond of trying 
 their skill in drawing, and are delighted 
 with a gift of pencil and paper. Already, 
 however, the atmosphere of trade has 
 reached into their souls : I am told they 
 now begin to sell what they were ready 
 enough to give away when I saw them 
 a ^t\v weeks ago ; and one fancies it will 
 S 
 
 not be long before they are transformed 
 from real Indians into those vile things, 
 watering-place Indians. 
 
 Criminals as they are, stirrers-up of 
 trouble as they are, rapidly degenerating 
 as they are, no man can see one of these 
 stalwart - chested fellows rise and wrap 
 his blanket about him with that big ma- 
 jestic sweep of arm which does not come 
 to any strait-jacketed civilized being, with- 
 out a certain melancholy at the bottom 
 of his heart as he wonders what might 
 have become of these people if so be that 
 gentle contact with their white neighbors 
 might have been substituted in place 
 of the unspeakable maddening wrongs 
 which have finally left them but a little 
 corner of their continent. Nor can one 
 repress a little moralizing as one reflects 
 upon the singularity of that fate which 
 has finally placed these red-men on the 
 veiy spot where red-men's wrongs began 
 three centuries and a half ago ; for it was 
 here that Ponce de Leon landed in 1512, 
 and from the very start there was enmity 
 betwixt the Spaniard and the Indian. 
 
 Nor, finally, can one restrain a little 
 sipile at the thought that not a hundred 
 years ago nearly this same number of 
 the most illustrious men in South Caro- 
 lina were sent down to this same St. Au- 
 
114 
 
 ST. AUGUSTINE IN APRIL. 
 
 gustine to be imprisoned for the same 
 reason for which most of these Indians 
 have been — to wit, that they were men 
 of influence and stirrers-up of trouble in 
 their tribes. After the capture of Charles- 
 ton by the British, during the American 
 Revolution, between fifty and sixty of 
 the most distinguished South Carolinians 
 were rudely seized by order of the Eng- 
 lish commander and transferred to St. 
 Augustine for safe-keeping, where they 
 were held for several months, one of 
 their number, Gadsden, being imprison- 
 ed for nearly a year in this very old fort, 
 refusing to accept the conditions upon 
 
 FORT MARIUN— THE TOWER. 
 
 which the rest were allowed the range 
 of the city streets. The names of these 
 prisoners are of such honorable antiquity, 
 and are so easily recognizable as being 
 names still fairly borne and familiarly 
 known in South Carolina, that it is worth 
 while to reproduce them here out of the 
 dry pages of history. They were — John 
 Budd, Edward Blake, Joseph Bee, Rich- 
 ard Beresford, John Berwick, D. Bor- 
 deaux, Robert Cochrane, J. S. Cripps, 
 H. V. Crouch, Benjamin Cudworth, Ed- 
 ward Darrell, Daniel Dessaussure, John 
 Edwards, George Flagg, Thomas Fergu- 
 son, General A. C. Gadsden, Wm. Hazel 
 Gibbs, Thomas Grinball, William Hall, 
 Thomas Hall, George A. Hall, Isaac 
 Holmes, Thomas Heyward, Jr., Richard 
 Hutson, Noble Wimberly Jones, William 
 Johnstone, William Lee, Richard Lush- 
 ington, William Logan, Rev. John Lew- 
 
 is, William Massey, Alexander Moultrie, 
 Arthur Middleton, Edward McCready, 
 John Mouatt, Edward North, John Neuf- 
 ville, Joseph Parker, Christopher Peters, 
 Benjamin Postell, Samuel Prioleau, Johr 
 Ernest Poyas, Edward Rutledge, Hugl 
 Rutledge, John Sansom, Thomas Sav 
 age, Josiah Smith, Thomas Singleton, 
 James Hampden Thompson, John Todd, 
 Peter Timothy, Anthony Toomer, Ed- 
 ward Weyman, Benjamin Waller, Mor- 
 ton Wilkinson and James Wakefield. 
 
 As you stand on the fort, looking sea- 
 ward, the estuary penetrating into the 
 mainland up to the left is the North 
 River, which Rene 
 de Laudonniere in 
 1 564 called the 
 "River of Dol- 
 phins;" across it is 
 the North Beach ; 
 in front you see 
 the breakers roll- 
 ing in at the har- 
 bor-entrance ; the 
 stream stretching 
 down to the right 
 is Matanzas River, 
 communicating 
 with open water at 
 Matanzas Inlet, 
 about eighteen 
 miles below. An- 
 other estuary, the San Sebastian, runs be- 
 hind the town, and back into the coun- 
 try for a few miles. The bar there is 
 said to be not an easy one to cross ; and 
 once in, sometimes a nor'-easter springs 
 up and keeps you in a week or so. In 
 the old times of sailing vessels these 
 north-east winds used to be called or- 
 ange-winds — on a principle somewhat 
 akin to Incus a 11071 — because the out- 
 side world could not get any oranges, 
 the sailboats laden with that fruit being 
 often kept in port by these gales until 
 their cargoes were spoiled. In rummag- 
 ing over old books of Florida literature 
 I came across the record of A Winter in 
 the West Indies and Flonda, by An In- 
 valid, published by Wiley & Putnam in 
 1839, whose account of one of these nor'- 
 easters at St. Augustine so irresistibly il- 
 lustrates the unreliableness of sick men's 
 
ST. AUGUSTINE IN APRIL. 
 
 115 
 
 INDIAN ART 
 
 accounts of climates that I cannot help 
 extracting a portion of it: "A packet- 
 schooner runs regularly from here to 
 Charleston, at ten dollars passage, but 
 owing to north-east winds it is sometimes 
 impossible to get out of the 
 harbor for a month at a time. 
 1 was detained in that man- 
 ner for ten days, during 
 which period I wrote this 
 description, in a room with- 
 out fire, with a cloak on, 
 and feet cold in spite of thick 
 boots, suffering from asthma, 
 fearing worse farther North, 
 still burning with impatience 
 on account of the delay." 
 Such a proem is enough to 
 make a St. Augustine per- 
 son shiver at the "descrip- 
 tion" which is to follow it ; 
 and well he might, for my 
 Invalid, after giving some 
 account of the climate from 
 a thermometric record of one year, and 
 drawing therefrom the conclusion that 
 invalids had better go to St. Augustine 
 in the summer than in the winter, pro- 
 ceeds : " But the marshes in the vicinity 
 harbor too many mosquitoes in summer, 
 . . . which rather surprised me, as it 
 seemed from the state of the weather in 
 April t/iat mosquitoes would freeze in 
 summer. These marshes, too, in warm 
 weather must produce a bad effect upon 
 the atmosphere."* 
 
 "At the time of writing the above," he 
 proceeds, " I supposed the wind was com- 
 ing about, so as to take me along to some 
 place — if no better, at least free from pre- 
 tensions to a fine climate. Nothing can 
 be worse than to find one's self impris- 
 oned in this little village, kept a whole 
 week or more with a cold, piercing wind 
 drifting the sand along the streets and 
 into his eyes, with sometimes a chance 
 at a fire morning and evening, and some- 
 times a chance to wrap up in a cloak and 
 shiver without any, and many times too 
 cold to keep warm by walking in the 
 
 * Showing our invalid to be an unmitigated land- 
 lubber. The only marsh about St. Augustine is salt- 
 water marsh, which is perfectly healthy. It is only 
 fresh-water marsh that breeds miasma 
 
 sunshine : with numbers of miserable 
 patients hovering about the fire telling 
 stories of distress, while others are busi- 
 ly engaged in extolling the climate. It 
 is altogether unendurable to hear it. 
 
 (DRAWN BY ONE OF THE INDIANS AT ST. 
 AUGUSTINE.) 
 
 Why, a man that would not feel too cold 
 here would stand a six years' residence 
 in Greenland or send an invalid to the 
 Great Dismal Swamp for health. The 
 truth is, a man in health" — and I am 
 sure nothing more naive than this is to 
 be found in literature — "can judge no 
 better of the fitness of a climate for in- 
 valids than a blind man of colors : he 
 has no sense by which to judge of it. His 
 is the feeling of the well man, but not of 
 the sick. I have been healthy, and now 
 I am sick, and know the above remark 
 is correct. No getting away. Blow, blow, 
 blow I North-east winds are sovereigns 
 here, forcibly restraining the free-will of 
 everybody, and keeping everything at a 
 stand-still except the tavern-bill, which 
 runs against all winds and weather. Here 
 are forty passengers, besides a vessel, de- 
 tained for ten days by the persevering 
 obstinacy of the tyrant wind, while its 
 music roars along the shore to regale us 
 by night as well as by day, and keep us 
 in constant recollection of the cause of 
 detention. 
 
 " Oh for a steamboat, that happiest in- 
 vention of man, that goes in spite of wind 
 and tide ! Talk of danger ! Why, rather 
 than be detained in this manner, I would 
 
n6 
 
 ST. AUGUSTINE IN APRIL. 
 
 take passage on board a balloon or a thun- 
 dercloud. Anything to get along!" 
 
 The city of St. Augustine is built on 
 the site of the old Indian town of Seloy 
 or Selooe. It was probably a little north 
 of this that Ponce de Leon made his first 
 landing in Florida in 1512. The tragic 
 mutations of the town's early fortunes 
 
 PALMETTO. 
 
 are so numerous that their recital in this 
 limited space would be little more than a 
 mere list of dates. Instead of so dry a 
 skeleton of history, the reader will be at 
 once more entertained and more instruct- 
 ed in all that is the essence of history by 
 this story — thoroughly representative of 
 the times — of the brief wars between 
 Menendez, the then Spanish governor, or 
 " adelantado," of Florida, on the one side, 
 and Jean Ribaut and Rene de Laudon- 
 niere, French Huguenots, on the other. 
 Already, in 1562, Ribaut has touched the 
 shore of the St. John's, and then sailed 
 northward and planted a short-lived col- 
 ony. In 1 564, Laudonniere has come over 
 and built Fort Caroline, not far above the 
 mouth of the St. John's. Laudonniere 
 had previously landed at the present site 
 of St. Augustine., and had amicable enter- 
 
 tainment from a "paracoussi," or chief, 
 and his attending party of Indians. 
 These Frenchmen appear to have had 
 much more winning ways with them 
 than the Spaniards. Laudonniere de- 
 clares that the savages "were sorry for 
 nothing but that the night approached 
 and made us retire into our ship," and 
 that "they endeavored by all means to 
 make us tarry with them," desiring "to 
 present us with some rare things." 
 
 But presently queer doings begin in 
 Fort Caroline, which it is probable was 
 situated at St. John's Bluff, on the south 
 side of the St. John's River. A soldier 
 who professes magic stirs up disaffec- 
 tion against their leader. Laudonniere 
 manages to send seven or eight of the 
 suspected men to France, but while he 
 is sick certain others confine him, seize 
 a couple of vessels and go off on a pi- 
 ratical cruise. Most of them perish after 
 indifferent success as freebooters : one 
 party returns, thinking that Laudonniere 
 will treat the thing as a frolic, and even 
 get drunk as they approach the fort, and 
 try each other, personating their own 
 judges and aping Laudonniere himself. 
 But Laudonniere turns the laugh : he 
 takes the four ringleaders, shoots them 
 first (granting so much grace to their 
 soldierships) and hangs them afterward. 
 
 So, Death has his first course in Fort 
 Caroline, and it is not long before he is 
 in the midst of a brave feast. The gar- 
 rison gets into great straits for lack of 
 food. One cannot control one's aston- 
 ishment that these people, Spaniards as 
 well as Frenchmen, should so persistent- 
 ly have fallen into a starving condition 
 in a land where a man could almost make 
 a living by sitting down and wishing for 
 it. Perhaps it was not wholly national 
 prejudice which prompted the naive re- 
 mark of a chronicler in the party of Sir 
 John Hawkins, who, with seven English 
 vessels, paid Fort Caroline a visit at this 
 time, and gave the distressed French- 
 men a generous allowance of provisions. 
 " The ground," says the chronicler, " doth 
 yield victuals sufficient if they would have 
 taken pains to get the same; but they" 
 (the Frenchmen), "being soldiers, de- 
 sired to live by the sweat of other men's 
 
ST. AUGUSTINE IN A PHIL. 
 
 117 
 
 brows." This chronicler's ideas of hun- 
 ger, however, are not wholly reliable : 
 hear him discourse of the effect of to- 
 bacco upon it : " The Floridians, when 
 they travel, have a kind of herbe dried, 
 who, with a cane, and earthen cup in 
 the end, with fire and the dried herbes 
 put together, doe suck throu a cane the 
 smoke thereof, which smoke satisfieth 
 their hunger, and therewith they live 
 four or five days without meat or drinke ; 
 and this all the Frenchmen used for this 
 purpose, yet doe they hold withal that 
 it causes them to reject from their stom- 
 achs, and spit out water and phlegm." 
 
 The fate of Fort Caroline rapidly ap- 
 proaches. In 1 565, Captain Jean Ribaut 
 comes back again from France, with 
 workmen and five hundred soldiers, to 
 relieve and strengthen the colony on the 
 St. John's. Meantime, news gets from 
 France to Spain that he is coming ; and 
 one Menendez is deputed by the Span- 
 ish government to checkmate him. With 
 much delay and loss by storms Menen- 
 dez ardently pushes on, and makes land 
 near St. Augustine harbor within twenty- 
 four hours of the arrival of Jean Ribaut 
 in the St. John's, fifty miles above. They 
 quickly become aware of each other. 
 Menendez tries to catch Ribaut's ships, 
 but fails, and sails back to St. Augustine ; 
 to which, by the way, he has just given 
 that name, in honor of the saint's day 
 on which he landed. Ribaut in turn re- 
 solves to attack, and, sailing down with 
 his whole force for that purpose, is driv- 
 en southward by a great storm. Mean- 
 time, Menendez sets out, under the dis- 
 couragements ofa tremendous rain and of 
 great difficulty in keeping his people up to 
 the mark, to attack Fort Caroline by land. 
 No difficult matter to take it, if they only 
 knew it, for Menendez has five hundred 
 men, and there are in Fort Caroline but 
 two hundred and forty souls (Ribaut be- 
 ing away with all the available force), 
 of whom many are people still seasick, 
 workmen, women and children, and one 
 is "a player on the virginals." Lau- 
 donniere himself, who has been left in 
 charge, is sick, though trying his best to 
 stimulate his people. 
 
 After three days Menendez arrives at 
 
 dawn. It is but a shout, a rush, a wild 
 cry of surprise from the French, a vig- 
 orous whacking and thrusting of the 
 Spanish, and all is over. A few, Lau- 
 donniere among them, escape. Many, 
 
 
 DATE-PALM. 
 
 including women and children, were kill- 
 ed. It was at this time that Menendez 
 caused certain prisoners to be hung, with 
 the celebrated inscription over them : 
 ''No por Franceses, sitio por Luteranos." 
 
 Meantime, poor Jean Ribaut has met 
 with nothing but disaster. His vessels 
 are wrecked a little below Matanzas In- 
 let, but his men get ashore, some two 
 hundred in one party, and the balance, 
 three hundred and fifty, in another. Me- 
 nendez hears of the first party through 
 some Indians, goes down the main shore, 
 and discovers them across the inlet. After 
 some conference this Delphic Menendez 
 informs them that if they will come over 
 he will " do to them what the grace of 
 God shall direct." 
 
 Not dreaming that the grace of God 
 is going to direct that they be all incon- 
 tinently butchered, the poor Frenchmen, 
 half dead with terror and hunger, first 
 send over their arms, then come over 
 themselves, ten at a time, as Menendez 
 
ii8 
 
 ST. AUGUSTINE IN APRIL. 
 
 directs. And this is the way that the 
 grace of Menendez's God directs him to 
 treat them, as related by his own broth- 
 er-in-law, De Solis : "The adelantado 
 then withdrew from the shore about two 
 bowshots, behind a hillockof sand, with- 
 in a copse of bushes, where the persons 
 who came in the boat which brought over 
 the French could not see ; and then said 
 to the French captain and the other eight 
 Frenchmen who were there with him, 
 'Gentlemen, I have but few men with 
 me, and they are not very effective, and 
 you are numerous, and going unrestrain- 
 ed it would be an easy thing to take sat- 
 isfaction upon our men for those whom 
 we destroyed when we took the fort ; 
 and thus it is necessary that you should 
 march with hands tied behind a distance 
 of four leagues from here, where I have 
 my camp.' " Very well, say the French- 
 men, and so each ten is tied, without any 
 other ten seeing it ; "for it was so arranged 
 in order that the French who had not 
 passed the river should not understand 
 what was being done, and might not be 
 offended, and thus were tied two hun- 
 dred and eight Frenchmen. Of whom 
 the adelantado asked that if any among 
 them were Catholics they should declare 
 it." Eight are Catholics, and are sent off 
 to St. Augustine, "and all the rest replied 
 that they were of the new religion, and 
 held themselves to be very good Chris- 
 tians. . . . The adelantado then gave the 
 order to march with them ; . . . and he 
 directed one of his captains who march- 
 ed with his vanguard that at a certain 
 distance from there he would observe a 
 mark made by a lance, . . . which would 
 be in a sandy place that they would be 
 obliged to pass in going on their way to- 
 ward the fort at St. Augustine, and that 
 there the prisoners should all be destroy- 
 ed ; and he gave the one in command of 
 the rearguard the same ordeY , and ii was 
 done accordingly ; when, leaving there 
 all of the dead, they returned the same 
 night before dawn to the fort at St. Au- 
 gustine, although it was already sun- 
 down when the men were killed." 
 
 The next day, in much the same way 
 and at the same spot, Menendez causes 
 a hundred and fifty more Frenchmen to 
 
 be butchered. Among them was their 
 commander, Jean Ribaul, who dies like 
 a hero, without fear, triumphant. Some 
 say Menendez cut off Ribaut's beard and 
 sent it to Spain. 
 
 There are still two hundred men of 
 Ribaut's, who get down the coast to a 
 place they name Canavaral, and set to 
 work to build a boat ; but Menendez soon 
 captures the party, and thus puts an end 
 for the time to the Huguenot coloniza- 
 tion in Florida, for Laudonniere's party 
 have gone off across the ocean back to 
 France. 
 
 But after many months — during which 
 Menendez has been very busy building 
 up the Indian town of Selooe or Seloy 
 into the city of St. Augustine, planting 
 garrisons and establishing priests in 
 various parts of the country, and final- 
 ly going back to Spain for succor — the 
 French have their revenge. One Dom- 
 inic de Gourgues sets out from France 
 in 1567, and after much trial gets into 
 the harbor of Fernandina. A favorable 
 angel seems to have charge of this man 
 from this time on. He is about to be 
 resisted by a great crowd of Spaniard- 
 hating Indians at Fernandina, when one 
 of his men, who had been with Lau- 
 donniere, discovers to the Indians that 
 they are Frenchmen. Thereupon they 
 are hailed with joy, alliance is made 
 with Satourioura, a chief with deadly 
 feelings toward the Spaniards, and De 
 Gourgues soon finds his army increased 
 by several thousand good fighters. They 
 straightway move down upon the Span- 
 ish forts on the St. John's, completely 
 surprise them, and kill or capture the 
 inmates. With these captives De Gour- 
 gues devises that piece of vengeance 
 which has become famous in history. 
 He leads a lot of them to the same spot 
 where Menendez had hung his French- 
 men, harangues them first, hangs them 
 afterward, and then replaces Menendez's 
 tablet with a pine board upon which let- 
 ters have been seared with a hot iron, 
 setting forth how he does this "not be- 
 cause they were Spaniards, not because 
 they were castaways, but because they 
 were traitors, thieves and murderers." 
 
 Early in 1568, Menendez gets back to 
 
ST. AUGUSTINE IN APRIL. 
 
 119 
 
 Florida, and one fancies that one would 
 not like to have been the body-servant 
 of that same adelantado when he learn- 
 ed what De Gourgues had done in his 
 absence, and how the latter was now 
 gone back to France, quite out of his 
 reach. Menendez thereupon turns his 
 attention toward converting the country 
 to his religion, but the inhabitants do not 
 seem to appreciate its sublimity. It is 
 stated that in one place four priests suc- 
 ceeded in baptizing seven people in one 
 year, but three of these were dying, and 
 the other four were children. The In- 
 dians, however, if they refuse Menendez's 
 precepts, certainly accept his practice ; 
 for one of them, pretending to be con- 
 verted, manages to get nine or ten priests 
 on a religious errand away up into the 
 Chesapeake country, and there does to 
 them what the grace of his god directs — 
 to wit, plays traitor and gets the whole 
 party (except one who is kept captive) 
 massacred incontinently. In truth, these 
 friars do not seem to have ingratiated 
 themselves with the Indians ; and in the 
 year 1578 the son of the chief of Guale 
 organizes a very bloody crusade against 
 them especially. At Tolomato (an In- 
 dian suburb of St. Augustine), in the 
 night, he kills Father Corpa ; at Topiqui, 
 another suburb, he finds Father Rodri- 
 guez, yields to the good father's entrea- 
 ties that he may say mass before he 
 dies, hears him say it, then kills him ; at 
 Assapo kills Father Auiion and Father 
 Bodazoz ; waylays Father Velacola, who 
 is trying to escape from them, and kills 
 him ; carries off Father Davila into cap- 
 tivity (this Father Davila is twice saved 
 from a cruel death during this captivity 
 by Indian women) ; and finally gives 
 over after being repulsed at the mission 
 on San Pedro Island. 
 
 Meantime, in 1586, Sir Francis Drake 
 has made a landing at St. Augustine, 
 scared everybody away from the fort, 
 captured a couple of thousand pounds 
 of money in the same, and pillaged and 
 burnt the town. Some years later the 
 priests got on better, and by the year 
 1618 had established twenty missions at 
 various points, and began to see some 
 fruit springing from their blood and toil. 
 
 About this time they had printed a cat- 
 echism in the Timuqua (Tomoka) lan- 
 guage, a copy of which was seen by Mr. 
 Buckingham Smith some years ago in 
 Europe. 
 
 In 1638 the Appalachee Indians attack- 
 ed St. Augustine, but were repulsed, with 
 the loss of many captives, who were put 
 to work on the fortifications, and kept at 
 it, with their descendants, for sixty years 
 together. The buccaneers, however, were 
 more successful, and in 1665 Captain John 
 Davis, a pirate, pillaged the town. 
 
 And then followed wars and troubles, 
 wars and troubles, until finally the ces- 
 sion of the whole of Florida to the United 
 States in 1821 gave the people rest from 
 that long battledore life during which 
 they had been bandied about from king 
 to king. 
 
 That portion of the town near the fort 
 is known as the Minorcan quarter, and 
 is inhabited by persons — mostly sailors 
 and fishermen — who are descendants of 
 the colonists brought over by Dr. Turn- 
 bull to New Smyrna in 1767. These 
 colonists were originally introduced to 
 engage in the culture of indigo, mainly 
 near New Smyrna on the Halifax River, 
 some sixty miles south of St. Augustine, 
 but after working for eight or nine years 
 they disagreed with their employers, 
 caused their contracts to be rescinded 
 by the courts, and moved up to St. Au- 
 gustine, where lands were assigned them. 
 
 The town has a resident population 
 of about two thousand, but is swelled 
 during the winter by probably six to ten 
 thousand visitors. These were formerly 
 landed by the St. John's steamboats at 
 Picolata, and thence transferred by stage 
 to St. Augustine ; but this cumbrous meth- 
 od gave way to the demands of the in- 
 creasing travel, and a tramway was then 
 constructed to Tocoi, a landing on the 
 St. John's only fifteen miles distant, over 
 which travelers were brought in horse- 
 cars. In its turn the tramway has now 
 given place to a railway, and a neat little 
 locomotive pulls the train across the bar- 
 ren pine-flats that lie between St. Augus- 
 tine and the river. 
 
 There are here a telegraph-office, post- 
 
ST. AUGUSTINE nV APRIL. 
 
 office, a public library and reading-room, 
 open to strangers, located in the rear 
 portion of the post-office building on the 
 Plaza ; Catholic, Episcopal, Presbyterian 
 and Methodist churches, and a colored 
 Baptist church. 
 
 Most consumptives, particularly those 
 who have passed the earlier stages of 
 the disease, are said to find the air of St. 
 Augustine too "strong" in midwinter, 
 but to enjoy its climate greatly in April 
 and May. There are those, however, 
 who have found benefit here during the 
 winter ; and it must be said that the needs 
 of consumptives vary so much with the 
 particular temperament and idiosyncratic 
 condition of each patient that no certain 
 prophecy, within the limits of climates 
 at all suitable for consumptives, can be 
 made beforehand. St. Augustine is much 
 resorted to by asthmatics : one of these 
 has found the North Beach so pleasant 
 that he has built a dwelling on it ; and 
 the visitor will discover many charming 
 residences recently erected in various 
 parts of the city by persons from the 
 North seeking health. 
 
 Yet why cite precedents to asthma? 
 It is a disease which has no law, no rea- 
 son, no consisteJicy ; it pulls logic by the 
 nose ; it spins calculation round with a 
 crazy motion as of a teetotum about to 
 fall ; and as for the Medical Faculty, it 
 deliberately takes that august personage 
 by the beard and beats him with his own 
 gold-headed cane. It is as whimsically 
 inconsequent as MoUie Sixteen; it is the 
 Capriccio in -I time of suffering ; it is 
 Disease's loose horse in the pasture. I 
 have a friend who begins to wheeze with 
 asthma on reaching New York, but re- 
 covers immediately on arriving at Phila- 
 delphia ; and another who cannot exist in 
 Philadelphia, but breathes with compara- 
 tive freedom in New York. People are 
 known who can live in London, but are 
 gasping asthmatics five miles away from 
 it ; and their opposites, equally well, who 
 gasp in London, but rejoice five miles 
 out of town. And I am told that there 
 are asthmatics in New York to whom 
 Canal street is a perfect demarcation of 
 asphyxia, insomuch that they can live 
 
 below it, but would quickly die above it. 
 Nor will any one who knows the asthma 
 be at all disinclined to believe that their 
 contraries might easily be found, who 
 would die where these live, and who live 
 where these would die. 
 
 The mean temperature of St. Augus- 
 tine, calculated upon twenty years' read- 
 ing of the thermometer, is — for spring, 
 68.54*^ Fahrenheit; for summer, 80.27°; 
 for autumn, 7 1. 73°; and for winter, 58.08°. 
 This would seem authoritatively to show 
 a charming temperature ; and the tem- 
 perature is charming, except when the 
 north-east wind blows in the winter. This 
 is the wind that sets everybody to swear- 
 ing at his coffee of a morning, to call- 
 ing for his hotel-bill, and to howling in 
 right Carlylese at humanity in general. 
 It is not severe intrinsically : people here 
 always want to kick a thermometer when 
 they look at it during a nor'-easter and 
 find it only about fifty-five or sixty, where- 
 as they had every just ground for expect- 
 ing any reasonable thermometer to show 
 at least ten degrees below zero. The 
 truth is, there is' a sense of imposition 
 about this wind which poisons its edge : 
 one feels that one has rights, that this 
 is Florida, and that the infernal thing 
 is the very malignity of pure aerial per- 
 secution. It blows as if it had gone out 
 of its way to do it, and with a grin. 
 
 Let, however, but a mere twitch of the 
 compass happen — let but the east wind 
 blow — and straightway the world is ami- 
 able again. For here the east wind, of 
 such maleficent reputation in the rest 
 of the world, redeems all its brethren. 
 It is bland as a baby's breath : it is, in- 
 deed, the Gulf Stream's baby. And if it 
 breathed always as it does on the day of 
 this present writing — a sweet and saintly 
 wind that is more soothing than a calm 
 could be — one finds no difficulty in be- 
 lieving that in the course of a i&^ years 
 the entire population of the earth, and 
 of the heavens above the earth, and of 
 the waters beneath the earth, would be 
 settled in and around this quaint, ro- 
 mantic, straggling, dear and dearer- 
 growing city of St. Augustine. 
 
THE OCKLAWAHA IN MAY. 
 
 FOR a perfect journey God gave us a 
 perfect day. The little Ocklawaha 
 steamboat Marion — a steamboat which is 
 like nothing in the world so much as a 
 Pensacola gopher with a preposterously 
 exaggerated back — had started from Pi- 
 latka some hours before daylight, having 
 taken on her pas- ___ 
 sengers the night ^ifj^'^jj^V '; ^ 
 previous ; and by 
 seven o'clock of 
 such a May morn- 
 ing as no words 
 could describe, un- 
 less words were 
 themselves M a y 
 mornings, we had 
 made the twenty- 
 five miles up the 
 St. John's to where 
 the Ocklawaha 
 flows into that 
 stream nearly op- 
 posite Welaka. 
 
 Just before en- 
 tering the mouth of 
 the river our little 
 gopher-boat 
 scrambled along- 
 side a long raft of 
 pine logs which 
 had been brought 
 in separate sections 
 down the Ockla 
 waha, and took off 
 the lumbermen, to 
 carry them back 
 up the stream for 
 
 another descent, while this raft was be- 
 ing towed by a tug to Jacksonville. 
 
 That man who is now stepping from 
 the wet logs to the bow-guards of the 
 I Marion, how can he ever cut down a 
 ! tree ? He is a slim, melancholy native, 
 and there is not bone enough in his 
 I whole body to make the left leg of a good 
 i English coal-heaver : moreover, he does 
 I not seem to have the least suspicion that 
 \ a man needs grooming. He is dishev- 
 
 eled and wry-trussed to the last degree ; 
 his poor weasel jaws nearly touch their 
 inner sides as they suck at the acrid 
 ashes in his dreadful pipe ; and there is 
 no single filament of either his hair or 
 his beard that does not look sourly and 
 at wild angles upon its neighbor filament. 
 
 STARTING-PLACE — PILATKA. 
 
 His eyes are viscidly unquiet; his nose 
 is merely dreariness come to a point ; the 
 corners of his mouth are pendulous with 
 that sort of suffering which involves no 
 particular heroism, such as gnats, or 
 waiting for the corn-bread to get done, 
 or being out of tobacco; and his — But, 
 poor devil ! I withdraw all that has been 
 said : he has a right to look disheveled 
 and sorrowful; for listen: "Well, st'r," 
 he says, with a dilute smile as he wearily 
 
 121 
 
THE OCKLAWAHA IN MAY. 
 
 leans his arm against the low deck and 
 settles himself so, though there are a doz- 
 en vacant chairs in reach, "ef we didn' 
 have ther sentermentalest rain right thar 
 on them logs last night, I'll be dad- 
 busted!" He had been in it all night. 
 
 I fell to speculating on his word sen- 
 termental, wondering by what vague as- 
 sociations with the idea of "centre" — 
 e. g., a centre - shot, perhaps, as a shot 
 which beats all other shots — he had 
 arrived at such a form of expletive, or, 
 rather, intensive. 
 
 But not long, for presently we rounded 
 the raft, abandoned the broad and garish 
 highway of the St. John's, and turned 
 
 off to the right into the narrow lane of 
 the Ocklawaha, the sweetest wnter-lane 
 in the world — a lane which runs for a 
 hundred miles of pure delight betwixt 
 hedgerows of oaks and cypresses and 
 palms and magnolias and mosses and 
 manifold vine-growths; a lane clean to 
 travel along, for there is never a speck 
 of dust in it, save the blue dust and gold 
 dust which the wind blows out of the 
 flags and the lilies ; a lane which is as if 
 a typical woods-ramble had taken shape, 
 and as if God had turned into water and 
 trees the recollection of some meditative 
 stroll through the lonely seclusions of His 
 own soul. 
 
 ON THE ST. JOHN S. 
 
 As we advanced up the stream our 
 wee craft seemed to emit her steam in 
 more leisurely whiffs, as one puffs one's 
 cigar in a contemplative walk through 
 the forest. Dick, the poleman — a man 
 of marvelous fine function when we shall 
 presently come to the short narrow curves 
 — lay asleep on the guards, in great peril 
 of rolling into the river over the three 
 inches that intervened between his length 
 and the edge ; the people of the boat 
 moved not, spoke not; the white crane, 
 the curlew, the limpkin, the heron, the 
 water-turkey were scarcely disturbed in 
 their several avocations as we passed, 
 and seemed quickly to persuade them- 
 
 selves after each momentary excitement 
 of our gliding by that we were really, 
 after all, no monster, but only a mere 
 day-dream of a monster. The stream, 
 which in its broader stretches reflected 
 the sky so perfectly that it seemed a rib- 
 bon of heaven bound in lovely doub- 
 lings upon the breast of the land, now 
 began to narrow : the blue of heaven dis- 
 appeared, and the green of the overlean- 
 ing trees assumed its place. The lucent 
 current lost all semblance of water. It 
 was simply a distillation of many-shaded 
 foliages, smoothly sweeping along be- 
 neath us. It was green trees fluent. One 
 felt that a subtle amalgamation and mu- 
 
THE OCKLAWAHA IN MAY. 
 
 123 
 
 tual give-and-take had been effected be- 
 tween the natures of water and of leaves. 
 A certain sense of pellucidness seemed 
 to breathe coolly out of the woods on 
 either side of us, while the glassy dream 
 of a forest over which we sailed appear- 
 ed to send up exhalations of balms and 
 stimulant pungencies and odors. 
 
 "Look at that snake in the water!" 
 said a gentleman as we sat on deck with 
 the engineer, just come up from his 
 watch. 
 
 The engineer smiled. "Sir, it is a 
 water-turkey," he said gently. 
 
 The water - turkey is the most prepos- 
 terous bird within the range of ornith- 
 ology. He is not a bird: he is a Neck, 
 with such subordinate rights, members, 
 appurtenances and hereditaments there- 
 unto appertaining as seem necessary to 
 that end. He has just enough stomach 
 to arrange nourishment for his Neck, just 
 enough wings to fly painfully along with 
 his Neck, and just enough legs to keep 
 his Neck from dragging on the ground ; 
 and as if his Neck were not already pro- 
 nounced enough by reason of its size, it 
 is further accentuated by the circum- 
 stance that it is light-colored, while the 
 rest of him is dark. 
 
 When the water - turkey saw us he 
 jumped up on a limb and stared. Then 
 suddenly he dropped into the water, sank 
 like a leaden ball out of sight, and made 
 us think he was certainly drowned, when 
 presently the tip of his beak appeared, 
 then the length of his neck lay along 
 the surface of the water, and in this po- 
 sition, with his body submerged, he shot 
 out his neck, drew it back, wriggled it, 
 twisted it, twiddled it, and spirally poked 
 it into the east, the west, the north and 
 the south with a violence of involution 
 and a contortionary energy that made 
 one think in the same breath of cork- 
 screws and of lightning. 
 
 But what nonsense ! All that labor 
 and perilous asphyxiation for a beggar- 
 ly sprat or a couple of inches of water- 
 snake ! Yet I make no doubt this same 
 water-turkey would have thought us as 
 absurd as we him if he could have seen 
 us taking our breakfast a few minutes 
 later. For as we sat there, some half 
 
 dozen men at table in the small cabin, 
 all that sombre melancholy which comes 
 over the average American citizen at his 
 meals descended upon us. No man 
 talked after the first two or three feeble 
 sparks of conversation had gone out : 
 each of us could hear the other crunch- 
 ing his bread in faiicibus, and the noise 
 thereof seemed to me in the ghastly 
 stillness like the noise of earthquakes 
 and of crashing worlds. Even our fur- 
 tive glances toward each other's plates 
 were presently awed down to a sullen 
 gazing of each into his own : the silence 
 increased, the noises became intolerable, 
 a cold sweat broke out over me. I felt 
 myself growing insane, and rushed out to 
 the deck with a sigh as of one saved from 
 a dreadful death by social suffocation. 
 
 There is a certain position a man can 
 assume on board the Marion which con- 
 stitutes an attitude of perfect rest, and 
 leaves one's body in such blessed ease 
 that one's soul receives the heavenly in- 
 fluences of the voyage absolutely with- 
 out physical impediment. Know, there- 
 fore, tired friends that shall hereafter 
 ride up the Ocklawaha — whose name I 
 would fain call Legion — that if you will 
 place a chair just in the narrow passage- 
 way which runs alongside the cabin, at the 
 point where this passage-way descends 
 by a step to the open space in front of 
 the pilot-house, on the left-hand side as 
 you face the bow, you will, as you sit 
 down in your chair, perceive a certain 
 slope in the railing where it descends by 
 a gentle angle of some thirty degrees to 
 accommodate itself to the step just men- 
 tioned ; and this slope should be in such 
 a position that your left leg unconsciously 
 stretches itself along the same by the 
 pure insinuating solicitations of the fit- 
 ness of things, and straightway dreams 
 itself off into Elysian tranquillity. You 
 should then tip your chair in a slightly 
 diagonal direction back to the side of the 
 cabin, so that your head will rest there- 
 against, your right arm will hang over 
 the chair-back, and your left arm will 
 repose along the level railing. I might 
 go further and arrange your right leg, 
 but upon reflection I will give no specific 
 instructions for it. because I am disposed 
 
I 24 
 
 THE OCKLA WAHA IN MA Y. 
 
 to be liberal in this matter, and to leave 
 some gracious scope for personal idio- 
 syncrasies, as well as a margin of allow- 
 ance for the accidents of time and place. 
 Dispose, therefore, your right leg as your 
 own heart may suggest, or as all the pre- 
 cedent forces of time and of the universe 
 may have combined to require you. 
 
 Having secured this attitude, open wide 
 the eyes of your body and of your soul ; 
 
 CYPRESS SWAMP. 
 
 repulse with heavenly suavity the conver- 
 sational advances of the natty drummer 
 who fancies he might possibly sell you a 
 bill of white goods and notions, as well 
 as the far-off inquiries of the real-estate 
 person, who has his little private theory 
 that you desire to purchase a site for an 
 orange grove ; thus sail, sail, sail, through 
 the cypresses, through the vines, through 
 the May day, through the floating sugges- 
 tions of the unutterable that come up. 
 
 that sink down, that waver and sway 
 hither and thither: so shall you have 
 revelations of rest, and so shall your 
 heart for ever afterward interpret Ockla- 
 waha to mean repose. 
 
 Some twenty miles from the mouth of 
 the Ocklawaha, at the right-hand edge 
 of the stream, is the handsomest resi- 
 dence in America. It belongs to a cer- 
 tain alligator of my acquaintance, a very 
 honest and worthy saurian, of good 
 repute. A little cove of water, 
 dark -green under the overhang- 
 ing leaves, placid, pellucid, curves 
 round at the river -edge into the 
 tiags and lilies with a curve just 
 heartbreaking for the pure beauty 
 of the flexure of it. This house of 
 my saurian is divided into apart- 
 ments — little subsidiary bays 
 which are scalloped out by the 
 lily-pads according to the sinuous 
 fantasies of their growth. My/ 
 saurian, when he desires to sleep, 
 has but to lie down anywhere : he 
 will find marvelous mosses for his 
 mattress beneath him ; his sheets 
 will be white lily-petals ; and the 
 green disks of the lily - pads will 
 rise above him as he sinks and 
 embroider themselves together for 
 his coverlet. He never quarrels 
 with his cook, he is not the slave 
 of a kitchen, and his one house- 
 maid, the stream, for ever sweeps 
 his chambers clean. His conser- 
 vatories there under the glass of 
 that water are ever and without 
 labor filled with the enchantments 
 of strange under-water growths: 
 his parks and his pleasure-grounds 
 are bigger than any king's. Upon 
 my saurian's house the winds have 
 no power, the rains are only a new de- 
 light to him, and the snows he will never 
 see: regarding fire, as he does not em- 
 ploy its slavery, so he does not fear its 
 tyranny. Thus, all the elements are the 
 friends of my saurian's house. While he 
 sleeps he is being bathed : what glory to 
 awake sweet and clean, sweetened and 
 cleaned in the very act of sleep ! Lastly, 
 my saurian has unnumbered mansions, 
 and can change his dwelling: as no hu- 
 
THE OCKLA WAHA IN MA V. 
 
 125 
 
 man householder may. It is but a mere 
 fillip of his tail, and, lo ! he is establish- 
 ed in another palace, as good as the last, 
 ready furnished to his liking. 
 
 For many miles together the Ockla- 
 waha is, as to its main channel, a river 
 without banks, though not less clearly 
 defined as a stream for that reason. The 
 swift deep current meanders between tall 
 lines of forests : beyond these, on both 
 sides, there is water also — a thousand 
 shallow runlets lapsing past the bases 
 of multitudes of trees. Along the im- 
 mediate edges of the stream every tree- 
 trunk, sapling, stump or other projecting 
 coign of vantage is wrapped about with 
 a close-growing vine. At first, like an 
 unending procession of nuns disposed 
 along the aisle of a church these vine- 
 figures stand. But presently, as one 
 journeys, this nun - imagery fades out 
 of one's mind : a thousand other fancies 
 float with ever-new vine-shapes into one's 
 eyes. One sees repeated all the forms 
 one has ever known, in grotesque jux- 
 tapositions. Look ! here is a graceful 
 troop of girls, with arms wreathed over 
 their heads, dancing down into the wa- 
 ter ; here are high velvet arm-chairs and 
 lovely green fauteuils of divers patterns 
 and of softest cushionment ; now the 
 vines hang in loops, in pavilions, in col- 
 umns, in arches, in caves, in pyramids, in 
 women's tresses, in harps and lyres, in 
 globular mountain-ranges, in pagodas, 
 domes, minarets, machicolated towers, 
 dogs, belfries, draperies, fish, dragons ; 
 yonder is a bizarre congress — Una on 
 her lion, Angelo's Moses, two elephants 
 with howdahs, the Laocobn group ; Ar- 
 thur and Lancelot with great brands ex- 
 tended aloft in combat ; Adam, bent with 
 love and grief, leading Eve out of Para- 
 dise ; Caesar shrouded in his mantle, re- 
 ceiving his stab ; Greek chariots, loco- 
 motives, brazen shields and cuirasses, 
 columbiads, the twelve apostles, the 
 stock exchange : it is a green dance of 
 all things and times. 
 
 The edges of the stream are further de- 
 fined by flowers and water-leaves. The 
 tall blue flags ; the ineffable lilies sitting 
 on their round lily-pads like white queens 
 on green thrones ; the tiny stars and long 
 
 ribbons of the water-grasses ; the cun- 
 ning phalanxes of a species of barnet 
 which, from a long stem that swings off 
 down stream along the surface, sends up 
 a hundred graceful stemlets, each bear- 
 ing a shield-like disk, and holding it 
 aloft as the antique soldiers held their 
 bucklers to form the testudo in attack- 
 ing, — all these border the river in infi- 
 nite varieties of purfling and chasement. 
 
 The river itself has an errant fantasy 
 and takes many shapes. Presently we 
 came to where it seemed to branch into 
 four separate curves, like two opposed 
 S's intersecting at their middle point. 
 "Them's the Windin' Blades," said my 
 raftsman. 
 
 To look down these lovely vistas is 
 like looking down the dreams of some 
 young girl's soul ; and the gray moss- 
 bearded trees gravely lean over them in 
 contemplative attitudes, as if they were 
 studying, in the way that wise old poets 
 study, the mysteries and sacrednesses 
 and tender depths of some visible reverie 
 of maidenhood. 
 
 And then after this day of glory came 
 a night of glory. Down in these deep- 
 shaded lanes it was dark indeed as night 
 drew on. The stream, which had been 
 all day a ribbon of beauty, sometimes 
 blue and sometimes green, now became 
 a black band of mystery. But presently 
 a brilliant flame flares out overhead : 
 they have lighted the pine-knots on top ' 
 of the pilot-house. The fire advances 
 up these dark sinuosities like a brilliant 
 god that for his mere whimsical pleasure 
 calls the black chaos into instantaneous 
 definite forms as he floats along the river- 
 curves. The white columns of the cypress 
 trunks, the silver-embroidered crowns of 
 the maples, the green and white galaxies 
 of the lilies, — these all come in a con- 
 tinuous apparition out of the bosom of 
 the darkness and retire again : it is end- 
 less creation succeeded by endless obliv- 
 ion. Startled birds suddenly flutter into 
 the light, and after an instant of illumi- 
 nated flight melt into the darkness. From 
 the perfect silence of these short flights 
 one derives a certain sense of awe. The 
 mystery of this enormous blackness 
 which is on either hand appears to be 
 
126 
 
 THE OCKLAWAHA IN MAY. 
 
 about to utter herself in these suddenly- 
 articulate forms, and then to change her 
 mind and die back into mystery again. 
 
 Now there is a mighty crack and crash : 
 limbs and leaves scrape and scrub along 
 the deck ; a bell tinkles below ; we stop. 
 
 In turning a short curve the boat has run 
 her nose smack into the right bank, and 
 a projecting stump has thrust itself sheet 
 through the starboard side. Out, Dick ! 
 out, Henry ! Dick and Henry shuffle for- 
 ward to the bow, thrust forth their Ions; 
 
 white pole against a tree-trunk, strain 
 and push and bend to the deck as if 
 they were salaaming the god of night 
 and adversity. The bow slowly rounds 
 into the stream, the wheel turns, and we 
 puff quietly along. 
 
 Somewhere back yonder in the stern 
 
 Dick is whistling. You should hear 
 him ! With the great aperture of his 
 mouth and the rounding vibratory sur- 
 faces of his thick lips he gets out a mel- 
 low breadth of tone that almost entitles 
 him to rank as an orchestral instrument. 
 Here is what he is whistling: 
 
THE OCKLAWAHA IN MAY. 
 
 127 
 
 Allegretto. 
 
 D. c. ad iiifinituin. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 3= 
 
 ^ 
 
 It= 
 
 ^^ 
 
 It is a genuine plagal cadence. Observe 
 the syncopations marked in this tune : 
 they are characteristic of negro music. 
 I have heard negroes change a well- 
 known air by adroitly syncopating it in 
 this way, so as to give it a barbaric effect 
 scarcely imaginable ; and nothing illus- 
 
 trates the negro's natural gifts in the way 
 of keeping a difficult tempo more clearly 
 than his perfect execution of airs thus 
 transformed from simple to complex 
 times and accentuations. 
 
 Dick has changed his tune : allegro ! 
 
 Da capo, of course, and da capo in- 
 definitely ; for it ends on the dominant. 
 The dominant is a chord of progress : 
 there is no such thing as stopping. It is 
 like dividing ten by nine, and carrying 
 out the decimal remainders : there is al- 
 ways one over. 
 
 Thus the negro shows that he does not 
 like the ordinary accentuations nor the 
 ordinary cadences of tunes : his ear is 
 primitive. If you will follow the course 
 of Dick's musical reverie — which he 
 now thinks is solely a matter betwixt 
 himself and the night as he sits back 
 there in the stern alone — presently you 
 will hear him sing a whole minor tune 
 without once using a semitone : the semi- 
 tone is weak, it is a dilution, it is not 
 vigorous and large like the whole tone ; 
 and I have heard a whole congregation 
 of negroes at night, as they were wor- 
 shiping in their church with some wild 
 song or other, and swaying to and fro 
 with the ecstasy and the glory of it, 
 abandon as by one consent the semitone 
 that should come according to the civil- 
 ized modus, and sing in its place a big 
 lusty whole tone that would shake any 
 man's soul. It is strange to observe that 
 some of the most magnificent effects in 
 advanced modern music are produced 
 by this same method — notably in the 
 works of Asger Hamerik of Baltimore 
 and of Edward Grieg of Copenhagen. 
 Any one who has heard Thomas's or- 
 chestra lately will have no difficulty in 
 remembering his delight at the beautiful 
 Nordische Suite by the former writer and 
 the piano concerto by the latter. 
 
 As I sat in the cabin to note down 
 Dick's music by the single candle there- 
 in, through the door came a slim line of 
 dragon-flies, of a small whitish species, 
 out of the dark toward the candle-flame, 
 and proceeded incontinently to fly into 
 the sarrie, to get singed and to fall on the 
 table in all varieties of melancholy may- 
 hem, crisp-winged, no-legged, blind, aim- 
 lessly-fluttering, dead. Now, it so hap- 
 pened that as I came down into Florida 
 out of the North this spring, I passed 
 just such a file of human moths flying 
 toward their own hurt ; and I could not 
 help moralizing on it, even at the risk of 
 voting myself a didactic prig. It was in 
 the early April (though even in March I 
 should have seen them all the same), and 
 the Adam-insects were all running back 
 northward — from the St. John's, from 
 the Ocklawaha, from St. Augustine, from 
 all Florida — moving back, indeed, not 
 toward warmth, but toward a cold which 
 equally consumes, to such a degree that 
 its main effect is called consumption. 
 Why should the Florida visitors run back 
 into the catarrhal North in the early 
 spring ? What could be more unwise ? 
 In New York is not even May simul- 
 taneously warm water and iced vinegar? 
 But in Florida May is May. Then why 
 not stay in Florida till May ? 
 
 But they would not. My route was 
 by the "Atlantic Coast Line," which 
 brings and carries the great mass of the 
 Florida pilgrims. When I arrived at 
 Baltimore there they were : you could 
 tell them infallibly. If they did not have 
 slat-boxes with young alligators or green 
 
128 
 
 THE OCKLAWAHA IN MAY. 
 
 orange-sticks in their hands, you could 
 at any rate discover them by the sea- 
 beans rattling against the alligators' teeth 
 in their pockets: when I got aboard the 
 Bay Line steamer which leaves Baltimore 
 every afternoon at four o'clock for Ports- 
 
 mouth, the very officers and waiters on 
 the steamer were talking alligator and 
 Florida visitors. Between Portsmouth 
 and Weldon I passed a train - load of 
 them : from Weldon to Wilmington, from 
 Wilmington to Columbia, from Columbic: 
 
 to Augusta, from Augusta to Savannah, 
 from Savannah to Jacksonville, in pas- 
 senger-cars, in parlor-cars, in sleeping- 
 cars, they thickened as I passed. And 
 I wondered how many of them would in 
 a little while be crawling about, crippled 
 in lung, in liver, in limbs, like these flies. 
 
 And then it was bed-time. 
 
 Let me tell you how to sleep on an 
 Ocklawaha steamer in May. With a 
 small bribe persuade Jim the steward to 
 take the mattress out of your berth and 
 lay it slanting just along the railing that 
 encloses the lower part of the upper deck, 
 
THE OCKLAIVAHA IN MAY. 
 
 T29 
 
 to the left of the pilot-house. Then lie 
 flat - backed down on the same, draw 
 your blanket over you, put your cap on 
 your head in consideration of the night- 
 air, fold your arms, say some little pray- 
 er or other, and fall asleep with a star 
 looking right down your eye. 
 
 When you awake in the morning your 
 night will not seem any longer, any black- 
 er, any less pure, than this perfect white 
 blank in the page, and you will feel as 
 new as Adam. 
 
 At sunrise, when I awoke, I found 
 that we were lying still with the boat's 
 nose run up against a sandy bank, which 
 quickly rose into a considerable hill. A 
 sandy-whiskered native came down from 
 the pine-cabin on the knoll. " How air 
 ye ?" he sang out to our skipper, with an 
 evident expectation in his voice. "Got 
 any freight for me ?" 
 
 The skipper handed him a heavy par- 
 cel in brown wrapper. He examined it 
 keenly with all his eyes, felt it over care- 
 fully with all his fingers : his countenance 
 fell, and the shadow of a great despair 
 came over it. "Look a-here !" he said, 
 ''hain't you brought me no terbacker ?" 
 
 "Not unless it's in that bundle," said 
 the skipper. 
 
 "Hell!" said the native : "/z//'snuth- 
 in' but shot ;" and he turned off toward 
 the forest, as we shoved away, with a 
 face like the face of the apostate Julian 
 when the devils were dragging him down 
 the pit. 
 
 1 would have let my heart go out in 
 sympathy to this man — for the agony of 
 his soaked soul after "terbacker" during 
 the week that must pass ere the Marion 
 come again is not a thing to be laughed 
 at — had I not believed that he was one 
 of the vanilla-gatherers. You must know 
 that in the low grounds of the Ocklawaha 
 grows what is called the vanilla-plant, 
 and that its leaves are much like those 
 of tobacco. This " vanilla" is now ex- 
 tensively used to adulterate cheap chew- 
 ing tobacco, as I am informed, and the 
 natives along the Ocklawaha drive a 
 considerable trade in gathering it. The 
 process of their commerce is exceedingly 
 simple, and the bills drawn against the 
 9 
 
 consignments are primitive. The officer 
 in charge of the Marion showed me sev- 
 eral of the communications received at 
 various landings during our journey, ac- 
 companying shipments of the spurious 
 weed. They were generally about as 
 follows : 
 
 " Deer Sir : i send you one bag Ver- 
 neller, pleeze fetch one par of shus numb 
 8 and ef enny over fetch twelve yards 
 hoamspin. Yrs trly, 
 
 The captain of the steamer takes the 
 bags to Pilatka, barters the vanilla for 
 the articles specified, and distributes them 
 on the next trip up to their respective 
 owners. 
 
 In a short time we came to the junction 
 of Silver Spring Run with the Ocklawaha 
 proper. This Run is a river formed by 
 the single outflow of the waters of Silver 
 Spring, nine miles above. Here new 
 astonishments befell. The water of the 
 Ocklawaha, which had before seemed 
 clear enough, now showed but like a 
 muddy stream as it flowed side by side, 
 unmixing for a little distance, with this 
 Silver Spring water. 
 
 The Marion now left the Ocklawaha 
 and turned into the run. How shall one 
 speak quietly of this journey over trans- 
 parency ? The run is in many places 
 very deep : the white bottom is hollowed 
 out in a continual succession of large 
 spherical holes, whose entire contents 
 of darting fish, of under-mosses, of flow- 
 ers, of submerged trees, of lily-stems, of 
 grass-ribbons, revealed themselves to us 
 through the lucid fluid as we sailed along 
 thereover. The long series of convex 
 bodies of water filling these great con- 
 cavities impressed one like a chain of 
 globular worlds composed of a trans- 
 parent lymph. Great numbers of keen- 
 snouted, long-bodied garfish shot to and 
 fro in unceasing motion beneath us : it 
 seemed as if the under-worlds were filled 
 with a multitude of crossing sword-blades 
 wielded in tireless thrust and parry by 
 invisible arms. 
 
 The shores, too, had changed. They 
 now opened into clear savannas, over- 
 grown with broad-leafed grass to a per- 
 
THE OCKLA WAHA IN MA Y. 
 
 feet level two or three feet above the wa- 
 ter, stretching back to the boundaries of 
 cypress and oak ; and occasionally, as we 
 passed one of these expanses curving into 
 the forest with a diameter of half a mile, 
 a single palmetto might be seen in or near 
 the centre — perfect type of that lonesome 
 
 solitude which the German calls Emsam- 
 keit — one-some-ness. Then, again, the 
 palmettoes and cypresses would swarm 
 toward the stream and line its banks. 
 
 Thus for nine miles, counting our gi- 
 gantic rosary of water-wonders and lone- 
 linesses, we fared on. Then we rounded 
 
 SILVER SPRING. 
 
 to in the very bosom of Silver Spring 
 itself, and came to wharf. Here there 
 were warehouses, a turpentine distillery, 
 men running about with boxes of freight 
 and crates of Florida vegetables for the 
 Northern market, country stores with 
 wondrous assortments of goods — physic, 
 fiddles, groceries, school-books, what not 
 — and, a little farther up the shore of the 
 spring, a tavern. I learned in a hasty 
 way that Ocala was five miles distant, 
 that I could get a very good conveyance 
 from the tavern to that place, and that 
 on the next day, Sunday, a stage would 
 leave Ocala for Gainesville, some forty 
 miles distant, being the third relay of the 
 long stage -line which runs three times 
 a week between Tampa and Gainesville 
 via Brooksville and Ocala. 
 
 Then the claims of scientific fact and 
 of guidebook information could hold me 
 no longer. I ceased to acquire know- 
 ledge, and got me back to the wonder- 
 ful spring, drifting over it face downward 
 as over a new world. It is sixty feet 
 
 deep a few feet off shore, they say, and 
 covers an irregular space of several 
 acres ; but this sixty feet does not at all 
 represent the actual impression of depth 
 which one gets as one looks through the 
 superincumbent water down to the bot- 
 tom. The distinct sensation is, that al- 
 though the bottom down there is clearly 
 seen, and although all the objects in it 
 are about of their natural size, undimin- 
 ished by any narrowing of the visual 
 angle, yet it and they are seen from a 
 great distance. It is as if Depth itself, 
 that subtle abstraction, had been com- 
 pressed into a crystal lymph, one inch 
 of which would represent miles of ordi- 
 nary depth. 
 
 As one rises from gazing into these 
 quaint profundities, and glances across 
 the broad surface of the spring, one's eye 
 is met by a charming mosaic of brilliant 
 hues. The water-plain varies in coloi 
 according to what it lies upon. Over the 
 pure white limestone and shells of the 
 bottom it is perfect malachite green ; 
 
THE OCKLAWAHA IN MAY. 
 
 131 
 
 over the water-grass it is a much dark- 
 er green ; over the moss it is that rich 
 brown-and-green which Bodmer's forest- 
 engravings so vividly suggest ; over neu- 
 tral bottoms it reflects the skies' or the 
 clouds' colors. All these hues are fur- 
 ther varied by mixture with the manifold 
 shades of foliage reflections cast from 
 overhanging boscage near the shore, 
 and still further by the angle of the ob- 
 server's eye. One would think that these 
 elements of color-variation were numer- 
 ous enough, but they were not nearly all. 
 Presently the splash of an oar in some 
 distant part of the spring sent a succes- 
 sion of ripples ciicling over the pool. 
 
 Instantly it broke into a thousandfold 
 prism. Every ripple was a long curve 
 of variegated sheen : the fundamental 
 hues of the pool when at rest were dis- 
 tributed into innumerable kaleidoscopic 
 flashes and brilliancies; the multitudes 
 of fish became multitudes of animated 
 gems, and the prismatic lights seemed 
 actually to waver and play through their 
 translucent bodies, until the whole spring, 
 in a great blaze of sunlight, shone like 
 an enormous fluid jewel that without de- 
 creasing for ever lapsed away upward 
 in successive exhalations of dissolving 
 sheens and glittering colors. 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 VIRGINIA SCENERY. 
 
 IT is a subject of complaint and a 
 sore reflection with Virginians that 
 the natural scenery of their State, which 
 they claim excels in interest any equal 
 area of the Union, and surpasses that of 
 Europe in the breadth of its panoramas 
 and in many other effects, has been so 
 long neglected, obtaining hitherto so 
 small a patronage of the traveler and 
 the artist. Certainly no other State in 
 the Union can make the same number 
 of exhibitions of the sublime and curious 
 in works of the wonder and cunning of 
 Nature. Yet these are but little known 
 north of the Potomac, and a population 
 unskilled in advertising the attractions 
 of their neighborhoods sees them ne- 
 glected, while inferior scenes and re- 
 sorts in the North are attended every 
 convenient season by tens of thousands 
 of visitors, are displayed in illustrated 
 papers, written of, ostentatiously de- 
 scribed, and made objects of curiosity 
 and of interest to the whole world. The 
 writer was recently shown a book, en- 
 titled Slimmer Resorts of America, in 
 which not a single place attractive to 
 travelers for health or pleasure was 
 noted south of Cape May. Yet here, 
 in this wonderful State of Virginia, we 
 have a well-defined belt of territory 
 containing more than twenty mineral 
 springs, in the variety and efficacy of 
 their water certainly unequaled in the 
 whole world, and offering the remark- 
 able double attraction that these foun- 
 tains of health and pleasure are set in a 
 scenery unsurpassed, and wherein stand 
 numerous wonders of Nature which have 
 been sometimes esteemed by the few 
 foreign travelers who have penetrated 
 to our mountain lands as, indeed, the 
 greatest sights of the American con- 
 tinent. 
 
 In years before the war these scenes 
 were visited from abroad to some ex- 
 132 
 
 tent. This awakening interest must 
 have been cut short by the war, or for 
 some other reason curiosity has resiled 
 from the mountains of Virginia, for it 
 is certain that scenes among them once 
 referred to as wonderful and interesting 
 have fallen into comparative obscurity, 
 and have for years since the wa.r failed 
 to make their appearance even in the 
 advertisement columns of the newspa- 
 pers. Yet what beauties may be swept 
 by a glance of the eye across less than 
 half the breadth of the State ! 
 
 Take the Natural Bridge in Rock- 
 bridge county, its arch fifty-five feet 
 higher than Niagara Falls ; its mystic 
 rocks rising with the decision of a 
 wall. 
 
 The Peaks of Otter (Bedford county), 
 5307 feet above the sea level, where 
 John Randolph, once witnessing the 
 sun rise over the majestic scene, turned 
 to his servant, having no other to whom 
 he could express his thoughts, and 
 charged him "never from that time to 
 believe any one who told him there was 
 no God !" 
 
 Hawk's Nest, or Marshall's Pillar 
 (Fayette county)— the latter name in 
 honor of Chief Justice Marshall, who, 
 as one of the State commissioners, stood 
 upon its fearful brink, the entire spot 
 not affording standing-room for half a 
 dozen persons, and sounded its exact 
 depth to the river margin, which ex- 
 ceeds one thousand feet. 
 
 The Natural Tunnel (Scott county) 
 passing one hundred and fifty yards 
 through the solid rock, making a huge 
 subterraneous cavern or grotto, whose 
 vaulted roof rises seventy to eighty feet 
 above its floor, and facing the entrance 
 to which is an amphitheatre of rude and 
 frightful precipices, looking like the de- 
 serted thrones of the genii of the moun- 
 tain. 
 Weyer's Cave (Augusta county ), which 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 ^17> 
 
 has been compared to the celebrated 
 Grotto of Antiparos, traversing in length 
 more than sixteen hundred feet, its in- 
 numerable apartments filled with snowy- 
 white concretions of a thousand various 
 forms, among which stands "The Na- 
 tion's Hero," a concretion having the 
 form and drapery of a gigantic statue. 
 
 A mountain scenery, of a portion of 
 which an English traveler passing 
 through the Kanawha country to the 
 White Sulphur Springs has written : 
 " For one hundred and sixty miles you 
 pass through a gallery of pictures most 
 exquisite, most varied, most beautiful — 
 one that will not suffer in comparison 
 with a row along the finest portions of 
 the Rhine." 
 
 Again, on the very waters of "the 
 Rhine of Virginia" — beautiful, wonder- 
 ful New river, cutting with its steel-blue 
 blade into the very rock, and even at 
 the base of its cliffs passing one hun- 
 dred and fifty feet deep through glitter- 
 ing banks of the mineral wealth of the 
 State. 
 
 The Bald Knob, with nothing but a 
 crown of rock on its scarred summit, 
 from which we may look as far as eye 
 can reach and watch the passenger 
 clouds into five States. 
 
 The Salt Pond, the mysterious lake 
 hanging among the clouds on the side 
 of Bald Knob, unfathomable, or meas- 
 ured in places only by the submerged 
 forest which we see as if cast in bronze 
 in the depths of the emerald waters. 
 
 A little farther away "a new Switzer- 
 land," compassed in Tazewell county, 
 where "Burke's Garden" smiles in the 
 shadow of "the Peak," and the swift 
 streams dash like arrows through the 
 mountain sides. 
 
 And lastly — that the freshness of a 
 recent discovery may adorn the cata- 
 logue — the Puncheon Run Falls, dis- 
 covered near the Alleghany Springs, 
 the water hurled from the brow of the 
 mountain, descending at an angle near 
 the perpendicular eighteen hundred or 
 two thousand feet — a scene in its union 
 of the picturesque and grand unexcelled, 
 yet which had never been noticed until 
 the summer of 1869 but by the rude and 
 
 stoical mountaineers, who had never 
 thought of advertising it to the world. 
 
 DISCOVERY BY THE YANKEES. 
 
 A Southern writer has ingeniously 
 remarked: "A Northern editor recently 
 visited Virginia, and on his return wrote 
 just such a descriptive account of the 
 people and the country as we should 
 expect from an explorer into an un- 
 known region. Indeed, one of the most 
 noticeable things of the late civil war was 
 the discovery of Virginia and the South- 
 ern States by the Yankees." 
 
 While capital and immigrants stand 
 gazing into this terra incognita, we may 
 disclose aspects of it to yet another class 
 of adventure and of travel. Fortunately, 
 at the time of this writing the attention 
 of the country has been powerfully 
 drawn toward Virginia in the interest of 
 its wonderfid industrial resources and 
 of a system of internal improvements 
 that has risen to national importance. 
 It is reasonable that such a vivid and 
 searching regard of the State must, in 
 the end, suggest and develop all the 
 elements of interest which it contains ; 
 that the natural scenery which envelops 
 its resources will not be much longer 
 slighted by the world ; that the tourist 
 will follow in the tracks of adventurers 
 in other pursuits, bringing a novel and 
 important element of travel into the 
 State, and discovering a new world of 
 beauty, as well as new kingdoms of 
 commerce and industry. 
 
 THE SANITARIUM OF AMERICA. 
 
 What is most remarkable of the Vir- 
 ginia springs is their peculiar accommo- 
 dation as a summer retreat from those 
 vast malarious districts which extend 
 through the richest portions of the South 
 and lie in the Valley of the Mississippi. 
 The fertile regions of the Mississippi are 
 liable to fevers (the calentures of the 
 Spaniards' times), and will always be 
 so : wherever vegetation is prolific and 
 exuberant — precisely in the richest por- 
 tions of the South — the wealth which 
 Nature has bestowed is counterbalanced 
 
134 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 by chills and fevers. The escape from 
 these malarious influences, and from 
 the diseases which abound in summer 
 along all the tributaries of the Missis- 
 sippi, is naturally to the springs and 
 mountains of Virginia — that area of high 
 land crowned with health-giving waters 
 and beautified by the finest natural 
 scenery of America. It is when the 
 tide of the class of visitors we have de- 
 scribed is fully turned into the springs' 
 region of Virginia that this portion of the 
 State will be developed in its peculiar 
 element of prosperity, creating sources 
 of wealth as real as those to be found 
 in any of the producing industries of the 
 commonwealth. The springs of Virginia 
 have a future before them that can 
 scarcely be measured. It will be real- 
 ized when those tides of summer travel 
 from the South which were formerly ex- 
 tended to tours in the North, and were 
 distributed from Saratoga and Cape 
 May, are collected, and obtain their 
 true direction to the mineral waters and 
 mountain scenes of Virginia. The ex- 
 tent and peculiarities of the vast popu- 
 lations of the South naturally turned to 
 these as a summer retreat, the numbers, 
 the wealth and munificent habits of a 
 class of visitors coming from the richest 
 portions of the cotton and sugar regions 
 of the South will constitute the future 
 prosperity of the springs of Virginia, and 
 be the only limits to what are already 
 the just expectations of the thoughtful 
 and the enterprising. 
 
 The only difficulty will be as to the 
 comforts and accommodations of these 
 places. This difficulty is already ap- 
 parent. The hotel accommodations of 
 the springs of Virginia are generally in- 
 sufficient or imperfect or unattractive. 
 People traveling for health or for pleas- 
 ure — especially the latter, persons ac- 
 customed to the luxuries of cities — will 
 not visit places, however blessed and 
 adorned by Nature, where there is 
 only a dreary hotel of whitewashed 
 boards, and some thin cottages uni- 
 formed with wooden washstands, bare 
 floors and cheap, crying bedsteads. Nor 
 will they be satisfied where the untrav- 
 eled proprietor, in his coarse estimate 
 
 of human needs, thinks that only cer- 
 tain quantities of food have to be put 
 into the stomachs of his guests, in- 
 sensible of the truth that the human 
 stomach of the civilization outside of 
 his mountains needs a delicate chemistry, 
 and that the cuisine is really an art — 
 not contemptible, as some vulgar satirists 
 have supposed, but one belonging to the 
 dignity of man. 
 
 But even where the accommodations 
 are finer and. irreproachable, the hotel 
 establishments of the Virginia springs 
 may be said generally to be conducted 
 on false and defective principles. They 
 are usually conducted on the narrow 
 methods of short and exclusive leases ; 
 or there is a monopoly of proprietorship 
 that excludes from the grounds every- 
 thing but its own ideas and fancies. The 
 North builds at all its watering-places 
 competitive hotels ; it sets up shops and 
 competes for every want of its visitors ; 
 and the entire hotel system at such 
 places is conducted on the principle of 
 adaptation to different classes of visitors 
 —comfortable accommodations and ne- 
 cessaries for all, and luxuries for those 
 who wish them and are able to pay for 
 them. The hotel establishment of the 
 Virginia springs is generally a single 
 caravansary, with tmiforviity of accom- 
 modations throughout — the narrow, one- 
 price system of the single hotel, and its 
 stiff rows of cottages as alike as the bar- 
 racks of a regiment, even to the pine 
 furniture and the huckaback towels. 
 The hotel proprietor of the Northern 
 watering-place calculates that the man 
 who is able and willing to spend his six 
 dollars a day shall find occasion for it ; 
 while at the same time he does not 
 neglect the privileges of another who 
 does not want luxuries, who is not able 
 to pay for a private parlor or a special 
 chamber, and who does not demand a 
 degree of accommodation beyond the 
 average guest. The hotel proprietor of 
 the Virginia springs, on the contrary, 
 has but one price and one accommoda- 
 tion. There are no degrees of comfort, 
 or, what is more, degrees of privacy, 
 such as are found in the hotel life of the 
 North ; none of its wonderful resources; 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 135 
 
 in short, too much of the old country 
 tavern as it existed before the modern 
 hotel became one of the phenomena of 
 our civilization, an "institution," an em- 
 pire and a study. 
 
 The defective hotel establishment 
 (generally speaking) of the Virginia 
 springs is doubtless a check on the pros- 
 perity of these places. Happily, however, 
 it is a check that may be readily re- 
 moved ; and the present disposition, 
 shown at the time of this writing, to im- 
 prove and develop springs' property ar- 
 gues the commencement of an expan- 
 sion of prosperity that will not be the 
 least among the great elements of wealth 
 in the State. The argument is simply 
 this : there is no disposition now among 
 the people of the Cotton States to go to 
 the Northern cities or watering-places ; 
 they greatly prefer the Virginia springs : 
 only give f/iew, and advertise to them, 
 the acco}>nnodations, and they will come. 
 It is said that in the summer of 1869 
 there were two thousand visitors at one 
 of these springs. There might as well 
 have been ten thousand there from the 
 great stock of summer custom — persons 
 not only from the South, but from every 
 part of the Union, who should find at 
 these favored spots of Nature the com- 
 forts of home and the pleasures of gay 
 society, and who would delight to linger 
 there for at least four months of the 
 year. 
 
 Enterprise and better management 
 are yet to be more fully learned by the. 
 proprietors of these places. In the les- 
 son of the latter is the art of advertising. 
 It is the custom of the Virginia springs 
 to advertise in a few local papers — the 
 lowest appreciation of advertising, a 
 system of waste, since it addresses only 
 those best calculated to know otherwise 
 of subjects in their neighborhood, ne- 
 glecting those who are removed from 
 sources of information other than comes 
 to them by the skill and enterprise of 
 the advertiser. Such skill and enter- 
 prise are yet to carry a knowledge of the 
 springs' region of Virginia beyond the 
 contracted borders of special localities 
 and to all parts of the country — the 
 knowledge that here, accessible to the 
 
 traveler from North, South, East and 
 West, is a region more healthful than 
 the fabled islands and more beautiful 
 than Dreamland — a region where Na- 
 ture has intermingled the fountains of 
 health with the feasts of the eye — where 
 she presses to the lips of the invalid the 
 living waters in the garnished and jew- 
 eled urns of mountain rock, and spreads 
 before the eyes scenes lovelier and 
 grander than those which imagination 
 with remote and wandering steps pur- 
 sues beyond seas and deserts. 
 
 It is a striking knowledge : it cannot 
 fail of effects. When the invalids who 
 sigh in every corner of the country shall 
 know the true value of the mineral 
 waters of Virginia ; when the aesthetic 
 man of the North, the artist and the 
 tourist, shall learn that there is a nat- 
 ural scenery in Virginia which in the 
 richness and variety of its expressions 
 is so admirable, unsurpassed perhaps in 
 its whole effects in any equal spaces of 
 the world ; when the guide-book of Vir- 
 ginia is admitted into the current litera- 
 ture of our times as freely and common- 
 ly as the pretentious and more intricate 
 vade Diecwn of Northern and European 
 tours, — we may justly then expect that 
 a bulk of travel and of wealth will be 
 poured through this region not much 
 less than that which has built up Long 
 Branches and Saratogas, or that which, 
 each summer, crosses the Atlantic to 
 dissipate its curiosity and its money in 
 foreign lands. The future of the Vir- 
 ginia springs is a magnificent specula- 
 tion, and there are great prizes bound 
 up in it. 
 
 At present I am firmly persuaded 
 that there is no field of investment in 
 Virginia that presents such opportunities 
 as does the already awakened improve- 
 ment of springs' property. Nor do I 
 regard this matter only in the light of 
 benefits to a class of property-holders ; 
 nor even exclusively in the interest of 
 the numbers resorting to these places 
 for health and pleasure. It is a real 
 element of public prosperity — part of 
 the economy of the resources of Vir- 
 ginia and pertaining to the interest of 
 the whole commonwealth. The aggre- 
 
136 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 gate results to the whole State of the 
 development of the springs' region is no 
 mean consideration. It is an interest 
 not only to the philanthropist concerned 
 with the ills of humanity, not only to 
 men of sentiment and pleasure, but an 
 interest to be cultivated in our public 
 economy, our legislation, our system of 
 internal improvements, our press, our 
 literature, and to be shared by all who 
 truly and in all respects desire the pros- 
 perity of Virginia. 
 
 DISTANCES IN VIRGINIA. 
 
 From the town of Liberty, twenty- 
 five miles, on the Virginia and Tennes- 
 see Railroad, from Lynchburg, the turn- 
 pike to Buchanan leads through a gap 
 high up on the side of the mountain, 
 and a country road deflects to the sum- 
 mit of the Peak. The distance is good 
 fourteen miles. And here I may give 
 an admonition to the traveler that should 
 avail him in all the mountain region of 
 Virginia : it is, never to lose time or tem- 
 per by asking distances of the country 
 people. If he does so, he will be driv- 
 en out of his wits by the inconsistencies 
 and absurdities of the answers given ; 
 and it is not only ignorant people who 
 will innocently misinform and annoy 
 him, but it is remarkable that the most 
 intelligent persons residing in the coun- 
 try blunder most unaccountably as to 
 distances, and that on roads familiar to 
 them. "Just over the mountain" is gen- 
 erally ten miles ; and "a piece farther" 
 may be half a mile or five miles. When, 
 at Liberty, I mounted for the Peak, I 
 was told by the nimble barkeeper at the 
 hotel that it was ten miles away : the 
 fat proprietor, who shuffled in slippers, 
 said fifteen. I had ridden a mile out 
 of town when I met a wagoner and 
 asked the distance to the Peak. " It's 
 nigh onto nine mile." I had traveled 
 five miles farther, when I accosted a 
 man on horseback, " How far to the top 
 of the mountain ?" " It is eleven miles," 
 he said, solemnly. I was halfway up 
 the mountain when I discovered a sleek 
 negro at the door of a cabin, to whom I 
 repeated the incessant question. "Yes, 
 
 sir" — with an air of importance: then 
 throwing up his eyes to the sun as it 
 making an astronomical calculatipn — 
 "yes, sir : it's just exactly about twenty- 
 five miles /" I answered nothing, and 
 rode on. I have no commentary to 
 make, except the assurance that each 
 answer was given me precisely as re- 
 corded, and that I have related an actual 
 experience. 
 
 THE PEAKS OF OTTER. 
 
 At last I am ascending the mountain 
 through a succession of panoramic 
 views. The road at one time seems 
 going away from the Peak : now it 
 bends back with new deteimination ; 
 now it flattens out on an observatory, 
 where I pause with involuntary excla- 
 mations as I see the country below roll- 
 ed out, and far beneath me the red 
 stripe of road by which I have come. 
 It is a wild and desolate country im- 
 mediately around me. I ride for miles 
 with no sign of human life by the road- 
 side but what some hut contains ; some 
 dogs bark at the horse's heels ; and 
 an old, half-nude negro glares at the 
 traveler with savage curiosity, ceasing 
 his work in a half-scratched field of 
 withered corn. Suddenly, and as if by 
 a magical translation, the road that has 
 hesitated in such scenes comes out upon 
 a broad shoulder of the mountain, in 
 sight of a pleasing mansion, and where 
 are noticed with infinite surprise all the 
 evidences of the broad and garnished 
 farm of a wealthy planter. 
 
 A LANDED PROPRIETOR. 
 
 It was indeed a surprising revelation 
 to find displayed here something like a 
 vision of feudal proprietorship. I had 
 got to the "gap" of the Peak before I 
 was aware : fenced in by the hills, it 
 affords no view of the country below, 
 and thus gives no idea of its elevation, 
 save by comparison with the yet un- 
 sealed top of the mountain ; and I had 
 thus insensibly ridden from an almos. 
 savage surrounding into a scene of 
 broad acres and cultivated rural life. 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 137 
 
 Mr. H , a well-known gentleman of 
 
 Virginia, owns three thousand acres 
 here, and has a numerous tenantry. It 
 was a picture of the old plantation life 
 of Virginia hid away in the niche of a 
 mountain — the romantic home of a mod- 
 ern feodary suspended in the clouds. 
 The hospitality of the proprietor de- 
 tained me ; and it was indeed as re- 
 freshing as it was unexpected to dis- 
 mount at a house which would have 
 been of no mean pretensions even 
 among our lowland gentry, crossing a 
 cultivated lawn to it, and noting evi- 
 dences around of a thrifty industry as 
 well as a refined taste. The name of 
 the place is "Bellevue." But there is 
 no view, so concealed is the place in 
 the mountain gap, except the Peak, 
 which stares into the sky and throws a 
 shadow down sharp as a spear-head at 
 evening. The neck of land which con- 
 stitutes the farm is well cultivated, to- 
 bacco being the staple production. 
 There were no workmen in the fields ; 
 and their absence there was painfully 
 explained to me when a few minutes 
 later there passed a funeral procession 
 of negroes in their decentest attire, fol- 
 lowing a short pine coffin placed in a 
 rude wagon, that drove slowly to a 
 grave dug in the obscure side of the 
 mountain that perhaps had bounded all 
 that the dead one ever knew of the life 
 of this world. 
 
 Mr. H , a representative of the 
 
 best of the intelligent large land-pro- 
 prietors of Virginia, instructed and inter- 
 ested me greatly in descriptions of the 
 resources of the mountain region which 
 he so eminently occupied. I found that 
 the people were developing a new in- 
 dustry here in the raising of fruit, and 
 especially in the culture of the grape. 
 
 Mr. H had just sold for fourteen 
 
 hundred dollars the apples he had gath- 
 ered from trees scattered about in the 
 fields, and hitherto grown without the 
 least attention. He was now about to 
 make a large experiment in the pro- 
 duction of wine from the Joplin grape. 
 The description of the country about the 
 Peaks of Otter answers, in respect to the 
 grape, for nearly the whole length of the 
 
 Blue Ridge in Virginia. On the sunny 
 slopes of these mountains there are said 
 to be precisely the conditions needed 
 for the growing of wine-making grapes. 
 The air is dry, the warmth entirely suffi- 
 cient, the soil suitable ; so that there 
 would be no mildew, the fruit would 
 ripen at the proper time, and the crop 
 would be abundant. These are the 
 conditions indispensable to the produc- 
 tion of the juicy wine-grape. The want 
 of proper geniality and warmth in the 
 climate of the North disables that coun- 
 try from producing the wine-grape, while 
 it succeeds well in producing the solid 
 table-grape. On the other hand, south 
 of Virginia there is danger of mildew 
 from the dews and fogs. Mildew is the 
 great enemy of the grape, and it cannot 
 flourish where the causes of the disease 
 prevail. On the sunny slopes of the Blue 
 Ridge there is no danger of this evil, 
 and I was assured that there the wine- 
 grape could be produced to perfection, 
 and to an extent that would soon make 
 a new feature of industry and a new re- 
 source of wealth in the State. 
 
 PUNCHEON RUN FALLS. 
 
 Within the leafy and untrodden for- 
 est of Montgomery county, in the south- 
 western quarter of Virginia, on one of 
 the rocky ribs of the Alleghanies, not 
 more than eight miles from the famous 
 Alleghany Springs, which for years 
 have numbered their visitors by the 
 thousand from all parts of the Union, a 
 gentleman (Dr. Isaac White, the resi- 
 dent physician of the springs), rambling 
 for trout up one of the forks of the Ro- 
 anoke river, found hid in the green 
 curtains of the woods, and defended by 
 fortress and palisade of rock, what is 
 now known as, or rudely called, the 
 " Puncheon Run Falls," and what is 
 destined (if I can trust my own im- 
 pressions) to exceed in its attractions 
 those already well-known "sights," 
 such as the Natural Bridge,' the Peaks 
 of Otter, Weyer's Cave, etc., which have 
 made Virginia famous for its monuments 
 of the beauty and cunning of Nature. 
 In the midst of what must have been 
 
138 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 once a grand convulsion of the elements, 
 and where the mountain side appears 
 to have been torn open almost to the 
 primitive rock — a wound from an un- 
 known source, unhealed, and kept open 
 and fretted with huge masses of stone — 
 a mountain stream descends, not per- 
 pendicularly, nor yet by stages of de- 
 scent, but at an angle near the perpen- 
 dicular, in a smooth plait of currents, 
 knotted with white cas- 
 cades, some eighteen hun- 
 dred or two thousand feet, 
 measuring the length of 
 the water. But the scene 
 and its surroundings are 
 best described from dif- 
 ferent stand-points of per- 
 sonal observation. The 
 journey to secure these 
 was not without interest, 
 but I have not the space 
 here for a record of the 
 trip which made for me 
 a day of various and in- 
 effaceable memories. 
 
 The first expression of 
 curious inquiry which is 
 made by the visitor at 
 Alleghany Springs con- 
 cerning this grand and 
 even sublime scene, so 
 close to a resort thronged 
 no less by lovers of Na- 
 ture than by those who 
 come to drink of the most 
 wonderful health -giving 
 waters of this State, is, 
 that it should have re- 
 mained so long undiscov- 
 ered, or rather unnoticed, 
 to the world. It is won- 
 derful, almost ludicrously 
 so, that a singular class of 
 people, for whom there is no other name 
 here but the general one of "Mountain- 
 eers," living close to the trails, where 
 they scratch the ground for a meagre 
 subsistence, and sometimes visiting the 
 springs, bringing chickens, eggs, fruit, 
 etc., should yet never have mentioned, 
 not even signified by a word casually 
 dropped in conversation, the existence 
 of this wonder of Nature, in the presence 
 
 or within the sound of which they lived 
 daily, and some of them had been born. 
 There is a "settlement" within a quar- 
 ter of a mile of the foot of the Falls, 
 and a number of clearings about their 
 top. The people who inhabit these 
 spaces on the mountains are a singular 
 class of country people ; very ignorant, 
 of course, but yet possessing much of 
 the silence and stoicism of the red man. 
 
 PUNCHEON RUN lALLS. 
 
 They are little disposed to converse, ex- 
 cept with those who have the art to fall 
 in with their manners — ^jealous or dis- 
 dainful of "city folks," and in their un- 
 couth life show much more of harsh 
 reserve than of mere rustic shyness. 
 They are not communicative (except in 
 whisky) — of course are desperately ig- 
 norant ; but their singular impassiveness 
 is what most strikes the traveler. Those 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 139 
 
 who lived near the Puncheon Run Falls 
 saw nothing remarkable in them, and 
 therefore never spoke of them. Not a 
 word, not even an accidental allusion by 
 these people, ever discovered that there 
 was within eight miles of Alleghany 
 Springs what was worth crossing half 
 the breadth of this continent to see. 
 But for the adventurous steps of an en- 
 thusiastic sportsman, the ramparts of 
 rocks and the veil of the forest would 
 yet have secured against intrusion this 
 grand and cunning work of Nature, now 
 accessible to the army of tourists and 
 the thousands who pursue in all the 
 ways of travel the genius of natural 
 scenery. 
 
 Speaking to a neighboring mountain- 
 eer after his first impression from the 
 discovery of these Falls, Doctor White 
 moderately remarked that they were a 
 great curiosity. 
 
 " I don't see nothing kewrus about 
 'em," responded the man, disdainfully. 
 "When the water comes over the top it 
 is bound to run down to the bottom, 
 and der ain't nothing kewrus or com- 
 ica/" (a rustic synonym for "strange") 
 "in that. Now" — adding, meditatively 
 — "if the water was to rjtft up, you see, 
 then I allow it would be a kcwrosity" 
 — a characteristic expression truly of 
 rustic philosophy. 
 
 CAMP OF DESERTERS. 
 
 There are local associations of the 
 Falls of a singularly romantic nature, 
 which are not to be omitted from my 
 narrative, and which appropriately con- 
 clude its interest. In the almost inac- 
 cessible country near the top of the Falls, 
 where there was a more modern settle- 
 ment known as Puncheon Camp, there 
 are remains of a noted refuge of desert- 
 ers in the war of 181 2. There are im- 
 perfect walls of stone yet visible where 
 they constructed rude abodes and defied 
 pursuit. Farther down the side of the 
 mountain, perched on a steep slope, 
 where a single man might hold in check 
 a thousand pursuers, there is an object 
 of yet greater interest — a house or cabin 
 built of large stones, and so cunningly 
 
 thatched with mosses that to the distant 
 eye it has the appearance of one large 
 rock on the perilous edge of the preci- 
 pice. This singular structure is now 
 known as the fortress and abode of a 
 number of deserters from the Confed- 
 erate army in the late war ; and it is re- 
 ported that as many as forty or fifty of 
 them harbored here, making predatory 
 excursions into the surrounding country 
 for subsistence, and invariably escaping 
 those who pursued them by the ingenuity 
 of their refuge. The place knows them 
 no more, but it yet hangs on the moun- 
 tain side, its loosened thatches of moss 
 fluttering in the breeze, one of the most 
 interesting relics of a war whose crook- 
 ed paths of romance are yet untrodden 
 by historical detail, and are yet to be 
 illuminated in story. 
 
 THE MONTGOMERY WHITE SULPHUR. 
 
 It is not so much as an invalid resort 
 that these springs are famous ; and the 
 proprietors appear to have the good 
 sense to understand that, after all, the 
 invalid patronage of watering-places is 
 but a small proportion of their profits, 
 and have therefore determined to keep 
 their place in a style of elegance and 
 comfort that will afford to that large 
 portion of the public in motion in sum- 
 mer an attractive resort and a social 
 rendezvous. For the gayeties of its sea- 
 sons the Montgomery White Sulphur 
 has a peculiar and unrivaled reputation 
 among the watering-places of Virginia. 
 There is nothing of the sapless and un- 
 interesting life of an invalid resort. The 
 social life here, high as it is, is peculiarly 
 Southern; drawing its animation from 
 the principal Southern cities, such as 
 New Orleans, and having less of that 
 Northern shoddyism which it has been 
 attempted to import into some of our 
 summer resorts in Virginia. Our South- 
 ern belles might perhaps improve their 
 taste in decoration, but we are sure that 
 people of fashion in the North might 
 improve their own style by imbibing 
 some of that earnest and natural gayety 
 and enthusiasm, that unconcealed sense 
 of happiness and enjoyment, which cha- 
 
140 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TO UK I ST. 
 
 racterize the more impulsive and demon- 
 strative people of the South in places de- 
 signed for pleasure and recreation. 
 
 MOUNTAIN SOCIETY. 
 
 There is a social and literary cultiva- 
 tion in this mountainous country which 
 often takes the stranger by surprise. 
 The hospitality of some .of these homes 
 is elegantly dispensed ; some of the finest 
 private libraries in Virginia are found 
 here ; the daughters of the wealthier 
 proprietors are sent to distant cities to 
 be educated, and it is not unfrequent to 
 find them giving that excellent grace to 
 the social circle which we may expect 
 from the real refinements of culture 
 without the affectations of fashion. But 
 what is remarkable of Tazewell and 
 of other parts of Virginia, rudely called 
 "the mountains," is that with such a de- 
 gree of intelligence and refinement as 
 that noticed we should find the most 
 violent and even grotesque mixture of 
 the abjectest ignorance. The contrasts 
 in this respect are of the sharpest and 
 most painful sort. What may now be 
 the scale of popular intelligence in 
 Tazewell I do not know, but before the 
 common-school system was instituted in 
 Virginia, it was estimated that of 3317 
 persons in the county over twenty-one 
 years of age, 1490 were unable to read 
 or write ! 
 
 A RIDE THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 The people who inhabit the wild 
 country which breaks into a succession 
 of mountain and valley in the south- 
 western corner of the State are desig- 
 nated generally as "mountaineers." 
 They are a peculiar class, with very 
 strong marks of character and manners 
 upon them. They differ widely from 
 the lowland rustic in the freedom of 
 their manners, in their superiority to the 
 bashfulness and slouching manner of 
 the bumpkin of Eastern Virginia, and in 
 the energy and even sharpness of their 
 discourse. When you ride to the cabin 
 of a mountaineer there is no scamper- 
 ing of an astonished family, and no un- 
 
 pleasant incident of small, uncombed 
 rustics peeping through the intervals of 
 brush-heaps or through the cracks of 
 fences at the sudden apparition of "the 
 stranger ;" no whining, distrustful greet- 
 ing of " Mister ;" no feeling on your part 
 that "the man in the store clothes" is 
 on exhibition in a curious circle of un- 
 mannerly wonder. The master of the 
 house advances to meet you with a free 
 manner : he has not much to say, but 
 generally his words are meet and suffi- 
 cient : you discover that while he has 
 the stoicism, he exhibits the niladmirari, 
 the silence, the self-collection of the red 
 man of the forest ; and it is only when 
 he discovers you to be as unaffected 
 and natural as himself that he warms 
 into discourse, yet speaking with a 
 strange energy, in loud, distinct, decisive 
 tones, and with a brevity and senten- 
 tiousness that sometimes really rise to 
 the dignity of a literary study. 
 
 "Look here," said I, "old man" (a 
 term of dignity always appreciated by 
 the mountaineer), "why do you smoke 
 so much ?" for I had observed him fill- 
 ing pipe after pipe, without a moment's 
 intermission, in the space of an hour. 
 " Well, sir, I live here' — tapping his 
 pipe : " I has my pleasure in whatsoever 
 I is at for de time I am at it." Could 
 there be any more brief or pregnant ex- 
 position of the philosophy oicarpe diem ? 
 
 In an intercourse of some days I 
 found that the dialect of the Virginia 
 mountaineer was not without peculiar- 
 ities. If he wishes to explain that he is 
 well and in spirits, he is "hunky;" but 
 if he wishes to give you a very emphatic 
 assurance of his feeling very agreeable, 
 he is "hunky-dory." Whatever is not 
 sweet and fruitful is "flashy." The 
 peaches were "flashy" on account of 
 the drouth. But the word of greatest 
 pregnancy — that in which the eloquence 
 of contempt is boiled down, strained 
 and compressed — is "extrornificacious." 
 It was explained to me as the deriva- 
 tive of a verb meaning to build up and 
 to pull down. A worthless busybody, 
 a man busy, but with litde results, is 
 "extrornificacious ;" and woe to the un- 
 happy wight upon whom the weight of 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 141 
 
 this word is laid — to whom this fearful 
 adjective once attaches in the critical 
 distribution of the mountaineer's opin- 
 ions and judgments of men ! 
 
 From the roads running through Taze- 
 well county the writer, beinf conveni- 
 ently on horseback, turned off several 
 times to explore the irregular tracts of 
 mountains on the wayside, and to claim 
 the hospitality of their singular inhab- 
 itants. That hospitality was never once 
 denied. Indeed, its abundance was at 
 times embarrassing. "Stay all night," 
 and the addition, " I'll treat you as well 
 as any man," was the unfailing invita- 
 tion on our journey. Once, when 1 had 
 said, "Good-evening, gentlemen," after 
 having mounted my horse, my com- 
 panion replied, as we rode away, ''Gen- 
 tleine7i indeed ! — for I offered one of 
 them a dollar for having pursued and 
 caught my horse up the side of the 
 mountain, and he actually refused it, as 
 if he had been hurt by the offer." 
 
 The county of Tazewell is, as we have 
 observed, far away from markets : the 
 people sell only those things which 
 "walk away" — meaning cattle, horses, 
 swine, etc. In midsummer the farmers 
 begin to gather their cattle for the 
 drovers, who start usually about the 
 first of September on their way to the 
 Eastern markets. Before the war, this 
 county exported, annually, about seven 
 thousand head of cattle, and it was not 
 unusual to see the roads lined with 
 them for miles, many of them passing 
 to market through the county from 
 Kentucky and Tennessee. The tradi- 
 tions of the commerce of Tazewell are 
 among the most interesting of South- 
 western Virginia, and the modern trav- 
 eler gathers from stories of the old 
 settlers many curiosities of the early 
 history of this part of the State. One 
 of the early settlers, yet remembered by 
 name (James Witten), had, one day at 
 a house-raising, jocosely inquired of his 
 comrades what they would think if in 
 twenty-five years wagons actually came 
 into the county and passed along the 
 very valley in which they were at work ? 
 "We think," they replied, "you are a 
 fool." Yet in less than twenty -five 
 
 years there were roads in Tazewell 
 county, and wagons traveled to it from 
 cities hundreds of miles away. The 
 local historian ( Doctor Bickley ) says : 
 " Goods were then wagoned into Taze- 
 well from Philadelphia, one wagon-load 
 generally sufficing the whole county. 
 About the year 1800 a sack of coffee, 
 for the first time, was brought into the 
 county. It was kept by Mr. Graham, 
 the merchant, a year and a half, and 
 then sent back as altogether unsalable." 
 The mountaineers had not yet learned 
 the use of the prime staple of the break- 
 fast-table, which is yet an uncommon 
 consolation of their poor descendants — 
 a consolation which, adulterated at the 
 cheap grocery and stirred up with the 
 native sugar of the maple, is by no 
 means an unmixed one. 
 
 But what is most surprising to the 
 modern tourist is the size and value of 
 farms (mostly devoted to grazing pur- 
 poses) owned by rude men, living in 
 smoked log-cabins, whose appearance 
 would betoken them as dire, half-nude 
 children of poverty. There is many a 
 feudal proprietor here in the guise of 
 hickory shirt and disproportioned pan- 
 taloons. "Uncle Billy" — the avuncular 
 title is only one of dignity — owns twelve 
 hundred acres, a beautiful domain on a 
 broad tableland, probably three thou- 
 sand feet above the sea level. There 
 is a natural park here of chestnut and 
 white pine, some of the trees fifteen to 
 twenty feet in girth, fit to be the orna- 
 ments of a nobleman's estate : there are 
 bursting granaries ; the broad fields are 
 picturesque with cattle ; there are store- 
 houses of hides, tallow, butter and wool ; 
 yet " Uncle Billy" goes in his shirt- 
 sleeves, lives in a log-cabin, and having 
 taken several drams, villainously sweet- 
 ened with maple sugar, on the day we 
 alighted at his cabin, whines dismally, 
 "Ole Billy is poor, but Ole Billy, you 
 know, doctor, is bound to have his 
 spree ; and Ole Billy had his jaws slap- 
 ped at the saw-mill last night by one of 
 the boys ; and Ole Billy cussed him to 
 h — 11 and back again ; and Ole Billy 
 has a white man's principle," etc., etc. 
 But Uncle Billy is happy and contented 
 
142 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TOUR 1ST. 
 
 in his own way : he raises the finest 
 cattle to be found in the Eastern mar- 
 kets, and he puts the money in more 
 lands, which he farms out on shares to 
 the boys — a characteristic of these 
 mountaineers being an ambition of ten- 
 antry, and an extreme tenacity of land- 
 ed property. 
 
 It is painful to notice the seclusion in 
 which these mountaineers — even the bet- 
 ter class of them — are satisfied to live. It 
 is a seclusion which nurtures some vir- 
 tues, but which begets a habit of life, a 
 slipshod industry, difficult to be under- 
 stood in the populous and cultivated old 
 Northern States. A mountaineer will 
 live in what he esteems comfort, and in 
 what he exhibits as contentment, in a 
 cabin to which there is no access but a 
 hog-path, and cut off by unbridged 
 mountain streams, which, swelled by 
 freshets, may imprison him for weeks. 
 The blacksmith, the harness-maker, the 
 wagon-maker, are unknown in his neigh- 
 borhood. He will do his work of all 
 sorts — cobble harness, work a farm with 
 one poor wornout plough, and will have 
 about as many tools for five hundred 
 acres of land as a live Yankee will re- 
 quire for fifty. The loneliness of his 
 life never troubles him. Mr. Horace 
 Greeley, traveling in another part of 
 South-west Virginia (Pulaski county), 
 says: "Coming down from the moun- 
 tains to Wolf Creek, our party struck 
 the clearing of a pioneer who had prob- 
 ably lived here fifteen to twenty years, 
 had cleared twenty to thirty acres, and 
 had most of it in grain ; yet who had no 
 outlet but a bridle-path — no sign of cart, 
 sled or \Yagon-track — to the road, half a 
 mile distant, and perhaps three hundred 
 feet below him, through a forest of su- 
 perb oak, where a good week's work 
 would have made a very passable cart- 
 way." This is a picture which we may 
 see in almost any mountain hollow of 
 South-west Virginia — a bridle-path going 
 up dry beds of streams and along preci- 
 pices to a mean log-house squat in a 
 recess, the master of which, though 
 
 comparatively a man of means, has been 
 satisfied for years to plod the same way 
 to his dwelling as when he first picked 
 his steps through the forest and made a 
 clearing for his home. 
 
 Altogether, the mountaineers of Virginia 
 are remarkable for a simplicity of primi- 
 tive life — a simplicity of some hardy and 
 manly aspects, quite unlike that mere 
 want of cultivation or that degeneracy 
 which, among the opportunities of more 
 populous communities, designates the 
 lower and ignorant classes. There is 
 nothing of the squalor or wretchedness 
 of poverty in the mountains. It is the 
 native simplicity of the lives of this peo- 
 ple that interests us, not the vicious or 
 slouching poverty that comes from loss 
 of caste or neglect of opportunities in 
 other societies. There is nothing in 
 common between the poorest moun- 
 taineer and the "mudsills" of the low- 
 land community. The poverty of the 
 mountain is picturesque : it is hardy, 
 healthful ; it is a school of rude but in- 
 dependent manners, not one of degra- 
 dation or of mendicancy, as elsewhere. 
 One excellent trait in the life of this peo- 
 ple will be testified to by the observant 
 traveler. It is the exceeding cleanness 
 of even their humblest homes. The ex- 
 terior of the log dwelling is uninviting 
 enough, but it would be unjust to omit 
 the surprised experience of the traveler 
 at the neatness and comfort he finds 
 across the rough-hewn threshold. The 
 few articles of furniture are well ar- 
 ranged. The bed, which is always 
 found in the main room where strangers 
 are received, is almost uniformly spread 
 with a coverlet of snowy white, forming 
 a contrast to the dingy log walls and 
 rough floor of boards or puncheons. 
 The dress of the inmates, though often 
 scanty, is clean homespun. Their ap- 
 pearance is healthful : the men gaunt, 
 muscular, remarkable for the want of 
 color in the face, but having nothing of 
 the sallowness of a sickly or ill-con- 
 ditioned people. 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 II. 
 
 THE NATURAL TUNNEL. 
 
 THE writer opines that many per- 
 sons living beyond the limits of 
 Virginia (and he knows that even a 
 considerable number of natives of this 
 grand and wonderful State) have never 
 heard of the Natural Tunnel. Whether 
 or not it is one of the greatest wonders 
 of this continent, let the reader deter- 
 mine when he has read my description, 
 rude and insufficient as it may be. 
 Much has been written vaguely (and 
 my own pen is already dipped in the 
 subject) of the natural scenery of Vir- 
 ginia, its supreme claims on the Ameri- 
 can tourist, and the neglect of those 
 claims ; but it is certainly an extraordi- 
 nary instance of such neglect that there 
 is within my memory no printed ac- 
 count of the Natural Tunnel, and that 
 even the curiosity of the newspaper-man 
 has scarcely penetrated its obscurity. 
 
 The road to Estillville takes us, in 
 turns, through two States. It is the great 
 thoroughfare of the wagon-trade to Bris- 
 tol, and it is picturesque with white- 
 covered wagons winding over the hills, 
 separate or in trains, dotting the land- 
 scape, several of them being almost 
 constantly visible on the tract of coun- 
 try that the eye sweeps. These are tlie 
 white ships of the mountains. They are 
 freighted with grain and fruit, and the 
 other stores necessary in the distant 
 homes from which they have come. 
 Some of them are emigrant trains 
 traveling westward. The modes of 
 "moving" are interesting. Whole fam- 
 ilies live for days, and even weeks, in 
 the covered bodies of these wagons, 
 cooking and sleeping under the trees 
 by the wayside ; and as the heavy ve- 
 hicle lumbers on in the day, such of the 
 emigrants as are able to walk trudge by 
 the side of it, while the aged and feeble 
 ride ; and it is not uncommon to see the 
 curious eyes of little children, in various 
 
 begrimed conditions, peeping from the 
 white canvas that covers the moving 
 household. 
 
 In one passage of the road we met a 
 close train of five covered wagons — a 
 few men in front with rifles on their 
 shoulders, and some six or seven bare- 
 foot women in their rear, of all ages, 
 from the old crone in her narrow and 
 dirty dress of linsey-woolsey to the 
 young girl of mountain beauty unadorn- 
 ed, walking slowly and painfully over 
 the stones as their teams labored up the 
 hill. 
 
 "Where are you going?" we asked 
 of one of the men. 
 
 "Gwine to Ar-kan-^v?.?," was the re- 
 ply, with a strong accent on the last 
 syllable. 
 
 "You have a long journey before you, 
 my friend." 
 
 "Yes, furrer'n five hundred miles, I 
 reckon," was the answer, with a certain 
 air of determination in the bronzed, set 
 face; and slowly, sturdily, the train 
 moved on in that long and weary jour- 
 ney which poverty and disappointment 
 elsewhere had appointed for the emi- 
 grants. 
 
 The western face of the Tunnel, near 
 which we dismount, continues partly 
 concealed from view, or is imperfectly 
 exposed, until we nearly approach it, 
 the immense rock which is perforated 
 being here dressed with the thick foliage 
 of the spruce-pine, and the harsh sur- 
 f;xce adorned with a beautiful tracery of 
 vines and creepers. At last is seen the 
 entrance of what appears to be a huge 
 subterraneous cavern or grotto, into 
 which the stream disappears ; a tower- 
 ing rock rising here about two hundred 
 feet above the surface of the stream, 
 and a rude entrance gouged into it, 
 varying in width, as far as the eye can 
 reach, from one hundred to one hun- 
 dred and fifty feet, and rising in a clear 
 
 143 
 
144 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 vault from seventy to eighty feet above 
 the floor. The view here terminates in 
 the very blackness of darkness : it is 
 broken on the first curve of the Tunnel. 
 The bed of the stream, from which the 
 water has disappeared on account of 
 the drought, the reduced currents sinking 
 to lower subterranean channels, is piled 
 with great irregular rocks, on the sharp 
 points of which we stumble and cut our 
 hands : there is no foothold but on 
 
 .if 
 
 THE NATURAL TUNNEL — ITS INTERIOR 
 
 rocks ; and it is only when we have 
 struggled through the awful, cruel dark- 
 ness, holding up some feeble lights in 
 it, and issued into the broad sunshine, 
 that we find we have traveled nearly two 
 hundred yards (or say, more exactly, five 
 hundred feet) through one solid rock, 
 in which there is not an inch of soil, not 
 a seam, not a cleft, and which, even 
 beyond the debouchure of the Tunnel, 
 vet runs away a hundred yards in a 
 
 wall five hundred feet high, as clean 
 and whetted as the work of the mason. 
 But we must not anticipate this ma- 
 jestical scene, "wonderful beyond all 
 wondrous measure." Happily, in en- 
 tering the Tunnel from the western side, 
 we have adopted the course of explora- 
 tion which affords a gradual ascent of 
 the emotions, until at last they tower 
 to the standard of a perfect sublimity. 
 The course of the Tunnel may be de- 
 scribed as a continu- 
 ous curve : it resem- 
 bles, indeed, a pros- 
 trate CO. For a dis- 
 tance of twenty yards 
 midway of this course 
 we are excluded from 
 a view of either en- 
 trance, and the dark- 
 ness is about that of a 
 night with one quar- 
 ter of the moon. The 
 vault becomes lower 
 here — in some places 
 scarcely more than 
 thirty feet high — and 
 springs immediately 
 from the floor. The 
 situation is awful and 
 oppressive : the voice 
 sounds unnatural, and 
 rumbles strangely and 
 fearfully along the 
 arch of stone. We 
 are encoffined in the 
 solid rock : there is a 
 strange pang in the 
 beating heart in its im- 
 prisonment, so impen- 
 etrable, black, hope- 
 less, and we hurry to 
 meet the light of day. 
 In that light we are disentombed : we 
 cast off the confinements of the black 
 space through which we have passed, 
 and we are instantly introduced to a 
 scene so luminous and majestic that in 
 a moment our trembling eyes are capti- 
 vated, and our hearts lifted in unutter- 
 able worship of the Creator's works. 
 
 It is that sheer wall of rock which we 
 have already mentioned, where the arch 
 and the other side of the Tunnel break 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 145 
 
 away into the mountain slope : a high 
 wall slightly impending ; an amphithea- 
 tre, extending one hundred yards, of 
 awful precipices ; a clean battlement, 
 without a joint in it, five hundred feet 
 high. And this splendid height and 
 breadth of stone, that a thousand storms 
 have polished, leaving not a cleft of soil 
 in it — this huge, unjointed masonry 
 raised against the sky, gray and weath- 
 er-stained, with glittering patches of 
 light on it — is yet part 
 of the same huge rock 
 which towered at the 
 farther end of the 
 Tunnel, and through 
 whose seamless cavity 
 we have traveled two 
 hundred yards. It is 
 in this view that the 
 mystery of the scene 
 seizes the mind and 
 the last element of 
 sublimity is added to it. 
 It is in this view that 
 the Natural Tunnel we 
 had come to see as a 
 mere "curiosity" takes 
 rank among the great- 
 est wonders of the 
 world. What Power, 
 what possible imagin- 
 able agency of Nature, 
 could have worked out 
 this stupendous scene ? 
 For all the wonders 
 and curiosities of Na- 
 ture within the breadth 
 of man's discovery, 
 there is always an at- 
 tempt to construct 
 some theory of a cause. 
 There is some scheme 
 of probabilities, or at least of possibil- 
 ities, that may be adjusted to the case 
 — some ingenuity that will supply some- 
 thing satisfactory, more or less, to the ig- 
 norance of man and his demand for an 
 explanation. Thus the Natural Bridge 
 in Rockbridge county has been ac- 
 counted for on the hypothesis — we be- 
 lieve of Professor Rogers, once of the 
 University of Virginia — of the worn exit 
 of an inland sea that in some immeas- 
 10 
 
 urable time washed its way through the 
 Blue Ridge to the ocean. But neither 
 water nor fire can be taxed by human 
 ingenuity as the cause of the Natural 
 Tunnel — a scene which, havmg ap- 
 proached in wonder, or even in its low- 
 er tones of "curiosity," we are yet com- 
 pelled to leave in unutterable amaze- 
 ment. Look at the breadth, the mag- 
 nitude of the scene — an unbroken rock 
 eight hundred feet in length, averaging, 
 
 THE NATURAL TUNNEL — LOOKING OUT. 
 
 say, three hundred feet in height to 
 where the soil clothes it, and measur- 
 ing nine hundred feet across the face 
 of the lower entrance of the Tunnel : 
 multiply these numbers together for the 
 cubic volume of this mountain of rock, 
 and then inquire if it is possible that the 
 Natural Tunnel could have been worn 
 — and worn to such dimensions as we 
 have already given of it, and which we 
 have described as clean rock through- 
 
146 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 out — by the action of water, operating 
 under any imaginable pressure or in 
 any conceivable time ! But the theory 
 of the agency of water, anyhow, is dis- 
 credited by a single circumstance — the 
 inequalities of the height of the arch, 
 varying as much as from eighty or nine- 
 ty feet in some places, to twenty in 
 others. Again, the phenomenon fails 
 to strike us as one of volcanic action. 
 There aie none of the irregularities of 
 an .upheaval : there are no signs of a 
 force rending the mountain and tearing 
 it asunder. The impression of the scene 
 — and it is here where its sublimity is 
 unexampled — is not as of some mighty 
 force that has raised the crust of the 
 earth, or that has rent the rock, or worn 
 through it, or delved in it, but as of 
 some mysterious Power, winged with 
 all the winds of heaven and browed 
 like the thunderbolt, that has battered 
 its way through the solid rock, tearing 
 away everything in its path, strewing it 
 with the huge, sharp ruins that now 
 choke the stream, and that has rushed 
 through it all like the screaming, invis- 
 ible body of a storm which scatters dis- 
 may around, and leaves behind it the 
 voiceless, uninscribed monuments of a 
 sublime and inscrutable wonder ! 
 
 The conception is terrible. The im- 
 agination is strained as we stand within 
 the august portals of this scene, med- 
 itadng a question which ever recurs — 
 feeling that shock which verges on in- 
 sanity, smiting the feeble mind of man 
 whenever he takes into his hands the 
 dark chain of causation. We let fall 
 in the strange doorway where we stand 
 the links of thought that thrill us too 
 powerfully, and we look to other parts 
 of the scene to moderate our emotion. 
 
 Turning our eyes away from the bat- 
 tlement of rock to the opposite side 
 of the ravine, a new revelation of the 
 grand and picturesque awaits us. Here 
 a gigantic cliff, but one broken with 
 rock and soil, and threaded to its sum- 
 mit by a sapling growth of the buckeye, 
 the linden and the pine, rises almost 
 perpendicularly from the water's edge 
 to a height nearly equal to that of the 
 opposite wall of rock. A natural plat- 
 
 form is seen to project over it, and yet 
 a few yards farther there is an insulated 
 cliff, a Cyclopean chimney, so to speak, 
 scarcely more than a foot square at its 
 top, rising in the form of a turret at 
 least sixty feet above its basement, 
 which is a portion of the imposing cliff 
 we have mentioned. It is at once per- 
 ceived that here are two points of view 
 that will give us new, and perhaps the 
 most imposing, aspects of the scene. To 
 attain these points, however, it is neces- 
 sary to make a circuit of half a mile ; 
 and the sinking sun admonishes us to 
 defer this new interest of the scene un- 
 til to-morrow. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 It is well that we did so. After a 
 comfortable lodging in a farm-house 
 two miles away, where a substantial sup- 
 per, flanked with the invariable milk and 
 honey of the mountains, and a bed of 
 snowy white linen attesting that cleanli- 
 ness so beautiful when found beneath 
 the rude roof, and yet so common in all 
 the homes of the mountaineers, had re- 
 freshed us, we remounted for the Tun- 
 nel in the early morning, and were soon 
 to find that the rising sun was to give a 
 new and unexpected glory to the scene. 
 This time we ascend the mountain, in- 
 stead of deflecdng as before. The road 
 is easy : there are no difficulties of ac- 
 cess to the points of view from the top 
 of the Tunnel, and they are undoubt- 
 edly the grandest. We pass to the plat- 
 form before described by a few steps 
 from the main road. It is a slab of rock 
 projecting from an open patch of 
 ground : a dead cedar tree is standing 
 at its edge, throwing its gnarled and 
 twisted arms, as in wild and widowed 
 sorrow, over the awful scene below. 
 We now see the great opposite amphi- 
 theatre of rock in added grandeur, for 
 we see it from above — we see across 
 a chasm nine hundred feet wiJe and 
 five hundred feet deep; and the ex- 
 posure being almost exactly eastern, the 
 long spears of the rising sun are being 
 shattered on it. The effect is inex- 
 pressibly grand. But there is one more 
 circumstance to be added to the scene : 
 we do not see from this observatory the 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 147 
 
 irch, the entrance of the Tunnel. A 
 ew yards farther the fearful chimney- 
 .liaped rock invites to a more command- 
 ng view, but the ascent is dangerous : 
 he stone on top is loose, and so narrow 
 hat two persons can scarcely stand on 
 t. A single misstep, a moment's loss 
 )f balance, and we should fall into eter- 
 lity. But now the sense of peril is lost, 
 )r is rather mingled, in the grandeur of 
 he scene. It is a panoramic view. We 
 lave now the whole sweep of the mural 
 )recipice opposite ; the sun's glitter is 
 ncessant on the polished stone ; the 
 rees which fringe the bottom appear 
 low scarcely more than shrubs ; the en- 
 rance of the Tunnel has now come into 
 iew ; and that which yesterday we 
 bought so high and wide, now appears 
 rom our amazing height as a stooped 
 oorway. We imagine the gloomy en- 
 rance into a cave of Erebus and Death, 
 \\Q broken rocks lying within which 
 Dok like black and mangled entrails, 
 t is a fearful picture — it is that of a su- 
 lernatural abode. 
 
 AN INDIAN LOVER'S LEAP. 
 
 It only needed some wild legend to 
 rown and adorn the scene. Happily, 
 uch is furnished, and, more fortunately 
 Dr the interest of the reader, the tale is 
 ^'ue. Some tradition attaching to such 
 
 spot is to be expected, and a spot, too, 
 urrounded in past times by the Indian 
 ribes. Romances are easily conjured 
 p or invented in such a scene ; and in 
 ict there is scarcely a remarkable cliff 
 lat does not suggest some new version 
 f the old story of "The Lover's Leap." 
 Jut the tradition attached to the chim- 
 ey-rock we have described was ascer- 
 lined to be true before the writer was 
 •illing to transcribe it ; and it furnishes 
 
 story and a scene more dramatic than 
 tiat of Pocahontas, or any of those ac- 
 ounts of Indian life which have been 
 arefuUy preserved in Virginia. 
 
 The story was told the writer by a 
 idy of the neighborhood, whose intelli- 
 ence and manners might have adorned 
 ny circle of listeners, and whose dark 
 yes flashed with the spirit of her nar- 
 
 rative. Her uncle, Colonel Henry S. 
 Kane, a gentleman well known and 
 honored in this part of Virginia, and of 
 extreme age, remembers the main inci- 
 dents of the story, which transpired 
 some years after the close of the Revo- 
 lutionary war, and which were related 
 to him by persons of the neighborhood. 
 The same incidents were preserved 
 some years ago in a Tennessee paper 
 ( I think the Rogersville Times ) . So 
 much for the authenticity of the story 
 of Masoa. 
 
 In 179-, what is now called Rye Cove, 
 a small settlement near the Natural 
 Tunnel, hemmed in by the mountains, 
 was occupied by a fierce Indian tribe, 
 probably the Wyandots. Masoa, the 
 daughter of the chief, was enamored of 
 a young warrior of her tribe, and their 
 trysting-place was on the wild heights 
 that overhang the subterranean passage 
 of the mountain. Here it was her cus- 
 tom to gather flowers and to meet her 
 lover in the inspiration of the beautiful 
 and solitary scene. But the old chief 
 had other designs for his daughter : he 
 had promised her in marriage to the 
 chief of a neighboring tribe, and, scru- 
 pulous as is the Indian in such affairs, 
 he was relentless to the entreaties of his 
 daughter, and angry when he discov- 
 ered that her affections had been en- 
 gaged by another. Masoa told her 
 lover in the accustomed place of their 
 meeting of the fate that had been deter- 
 mined for her ; when it is said, he ad- 
 vised, as the only means of averting 
 their disappointment, that on the day 
 appointed for the neighboring chief to 
 claim his bride, Masoa should escape, 
 ascend the sharp, high rock, and there, 
 with her lover, proclaim him as her 
 choice to her father and to the party 
 who would probably pursue her ; the 
 two threatening to cast themselves from 
 the rock if compassion was not had on 
 their love and the maiden released by 
 her father from his hateful compact. It 
 was hoped that the prospect of a self- 
 immolation so awful, so instant and so 
 dreadful in its aspects might touch the 
 heart of the old chief, and save Masoa 
 and her lover. The day came for the 
 
148 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 celebration of the marriage which the 
 father had designed : the neighboring 
 chief who was to bear away the prize 
 attended with numerous followers. It 
 was an occasion of barbaric splendor, 
 to which all were invited ; but Masoa 
 was missing. Search was instituted : 
 her romantic habit of visiting the wild 
 scene on the mountain was known, and 
 it is said that a little brother, who had 
 frequently accompanied her there, now 
 innocently directed the party of pur- 
 suers. These, to the number of several 
 hundred, had searched through the cav- 
 ernous recesses of the Tunnel. Assem- 
 bled in the amphitheatre below which 
 we have described, closely mingled in 
 the ardor of pursuit, an appalling sight 
 fell on their uplifted eyes — Masoa and 
 her lover on the high stem of rock, his 
 strong form uplifted above the screen 
 of woods in clear relief against the sky, 
 and embracing it the affrighted but un- 
 shrinking maiden, who had ascended 
 with him this awful altar of immolation. 
 She had commenced to speak to the 
 spectators below, and she was yet speak- 
 ing loudly and vehemently in the last 
 eager hope of reconciliation with her 
 father and of safety for her lover, when 
 an arrow whizzed through the air. It 
 had been strung by the jealous and dis- 
 appointed chief below. A stream of 
 blood gushed from the breast of the 
 warrior — that breast from which she had 
 separated herself but a little space to 
 rise to the proclamation of her love : 
 she was seen to clasp him in her arms, 
 to look long and tenderly on his face as 
 if inquiring of the death that passed 
 over and sealed it; and then, em- 
 bracing him more tightly and uttering a 
 wild, long shriek, she leaped down into 
 the air, falling a mangled corpse on the 
 rocks below, and bearing in her not 
 yet loosened arms the dead body of her 
 lover. The scene is not yet ended : 
 another death completes it. Even while 
 Masoa leaped, her brother, exasperated, 
 in the quick agony of his revenge has 
 stridden behind the assassin chief and 
 planted his tomahawk in his brain. All 
 three of the dead bodies are said to 
 bave fallen nearly together. 
 
 Such is "The Story of Masoa" — cha- 
 racteristic of the Indian nature, its 
 strength and ardor, containing no vio- 
 lent improbability, assured by such liv- 
 ing testimony as has given us those 
 many narrations of Indian life which 
 we do not hesitate to believe, and so 
 vivid and dramatic, its natural arrange- 
 ment falling in such a form of tragedy, 
 that I may congratulate myself on 
 saving it to the literature and romance 
 of Virginia. 
 
 A NARROW ESCAPE. 
 
 A MORE modern and a more homely 
 adventure is related of another part of the 
 scene. It happened within the memory 
 of the neighbors. In the perpendicular 
 wall of rock at the lower entrance to 
 the Tunnel occurs what is apparently a 
 small cave or fissure. A man of the 
 name of Dodson determined to explore 
 it, as it was not unlikely that it might 
 contain nitrous earth, since found to 
 abound in the caves and grottoes of 
 these mountains, from which saltpetre 
 is extracted. Anyhow, Dodson was de- 
 termined to take a look into this open- 
 ing, and he was accordingly lowered 
 from the top by a rope running over a 
 log and let out by several men. The 
 rope was eked out to a sufficient length 
 by some plaited strands of the bark of 
 leatherwood ; and on this perilous ten- 
 ure, supported around the waist, he 
 commenced his descent. The precipice 
 shelves considerably here, and to draw 
 himself to the edge of the fissure, Dod- 
 son had provided himself with a long 
 pole having a hook at the end. Throw- 
 ing this on the edge of the fissure, he 
 had nearly pulled himself there when he 
 lost his hold and swung like a pendu- 
 lum out into the middle of the ravine, 
 suspended by an imperfect rope two hun- 
 dred feet above the bed of rock below. 
 At this moment, when he was perform- 
 ing his fearful oscillations — so fearful 
 that one of his neighbors standing at a 
 point on the opposite cliff described it 
 as if his body had been shmg at him 
 across the abyss, causing the spectator 
 to draw back instinctively — an eagle, 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 149 
 
 scared from its nest in the fissure, and 
 excited to protect it, flew out and at- 
 tacked the already alarmed adventurer. 
 Having dropped his pole in his conster- 
 nation, he yet managed to defend him- 
 self with a pocket-knife ; but while stab- 
 bing at the eagle over his head, he 
 severed one of the strands of his bark 
 rope. The accident was unperceived 
 by those who held the rope above, who 
 were only notified that something fear- 
 ful had happened by the screams of 
 Dodson — " Pull ! for God's sake, pull !" 
 He was saved, but the agony of sus- 
 pense was too much for him ; and as 
 the men caught him by the shoulders 
 and dragged him over the top of the 
 precipice, he fainted. The opening he 
 had ventured so much to explore has 
 since been found to be nothing but a 
 shallow pocket in the rock. 
 
 A RIDE IN THE DARK. 
 
 It had been determined, in our leis- 
 urely plan of journey, to leave the main 
 road within a few miles of Salt Pond, 
 deflecting to Eggleston's White Sulphur 
 Springs, and to spend the night there. 
 We had been told that the hotel accom- 
 modations at the Pond were vile beyond 
 description ; while Warren, who had 
 spent a former season at Eggleston's, 
 assured me, with good reason as I after- 
 ward found, that it was the most de- 
 licious and comfortable of resorts in the 
 mountain region of Virginia. We should 
 sup on broiled pheasants, drink the most 
 famous of whisky toddies, and go to 
 sleep on the banks of New river and in 
 view of " Pompey's Pillar" and " C?esar's 
 Arch," the magnificent rock-work throw- 
 ing its shadows through our windows. 
 So it was decided to spend the night at 
 Eggleston's, and to devote the following 
 day or days to Salt Pond, Bald Knob, 
 Little Stony Falls, etc. It was a well- 
 planned journey, but, alas ! how many 
 such "gang a-gley !" 
 
 At Blacksburg, where we tarried and 
 lunched, we had been told that from 
 Newport, nine miles across the moun- 
 tains, it was but three miles to Eggles- 
 ton's. We had thus been in no hurry 
 
 to pursue our journey : the greater part 
 of the way, up and down the mountain 
 ridge, we had ridden very slowly ; and 
 the sun had been set for a quarter of an 
 hour when we reached Newpoi't, a set- 
 tlement of twenty or thirty board houses 
 on a little pad of soil at the bottom of 
 a funnel-shaped cup formed by the high 
 hills or mountains. As we passed 
 through the toll-gate here, we asked the 
 distance to Eggleston's Springs. 
 
 " It's nine miles !" was the reply, not 
 a little to our consternation. 
 
 The night was gathering, the sky had 
 become overcast with clouds, but we de- 
 termined to pass on in view of the cheer 
 that awaited us, much to be preferred 
 to that suggested by the tarnished sign- 
 board of the Newport hotel that creaked 
 dismally over our heads. We had rid- 
 den about three miles when one of those 
 rain-storms which spring up so suddenly 
 in the mountains absolutely engulfed us 
 in darkness. It was so dark that I could 
 see nothing before me, not even Jacky's 
 ears : the roar of the winds through the 
 mountain pines was terribly grand — a 
 solemn diapason that drowned our 
 voices ; the air of the night had become 
 so cold that my benumbed fingers could 
 scarcely feel the reins of the bridle ; 
 there was no sign of human habitation 
 near ; and, to suggest the real perils of 
 our situation, we could hear through 
 fitful intervals of the storm of wind and 
 rain the sound of rushing water below 
 us, telling us that our road overhung 
 the deep channel of a river. We rode 
 on in single file, Jacky bringing up 
 the rear, faithfully keeping the pace of 
 the horse in front, but absolutely re- 
 fusing to move a peg when the attempt 
 had been made to put him in advance. 
 
 Presently a glimmering light was de- 
 scried in the encircling sea of darkness, 
 in which were absolutely obliterated all 
 our ideas of distance. We could only 
 tell that we approached it by its growing 
 larger, and could only infer that it sig- 
 nified that a house was near. 
 
 We shouted at the top of our voices, 
 "Are we in the road to Eggleston's 
 Springs.''" "Yes," came in reply a 
 gruff voice: then followed something 
 
15° 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 indistinct about "fork " in the road and 
 keeping by the side of a fence. 
 
 "But, my friend," I remonstrated, "I 
 can't see any fence — I can't see any- 
 thing." 
 
 "I can't help that," was the boor's 
 reply ; and the door must have been 
 slammed to, for the light suddenly dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 There was evidently no prospect of 
 any hospitable resource here. We rode 
 on through the darkness and the rain, 
 Warren in front, trusting to the eyes 
 and instinct of his faithful steed. In 
 miserable plight we toiled through the 
 storm, blind, wet, dogged, with the cold 
 wind smiting our faces, insensible now 
 to its really sublime effect, as, like an 
 invisible army with chariots, it rumbled 
 far away up the mountain sides. We 
 must have gone a mile or so, when, just 
 as a blast of wind cut fiercely over our 
 heads, I heard a sharp exclamation in 
 front — 
 
 " I've lost my hat !" 
 
 Expressions of sympathy were of no 
 avail. Warren could not spare his hat, 
 but in such a storm it might have lodged 
 near by or it might have blown a quar- 
 ter of a mile away. I found that War- 
 ren had dismounted, for he felt his way 
 to me and requested me to hold his 
 horse while he attempted to light a 
 match under the folds of his cloak. 
 
 "What in the world are you going to 
 do ?" I asked. 
 
 "I'm going to find my hat," was the 
 reply. 
 
 A match was lighted after repeated 
 failures, then a wisp of paper, which 
 showed a fence near by. The rails were 
 torn down, and we soon had, by aid of 
 the wind, a fierce fire burning. It was 
 a wild scene — the fire hissing through 
 the rain, and throwing its twisted arms 
 up into the black sky ; Warren, his head 
 bound by a white handkerchief, flour- 
 ishing a pine torch as he traversed the 
 road for a hundred yards searching for 
 the lost hat ; while far away some alarm- 
 ed dogs bayed at this unexpected appa- 
 rition of the night. We had searched 
 in vain for a full half hour, and were on 
 the point of despairing, when I heard a 
 
 glad cry from Warren. He had found 
 his hat : it had been lodged fifty yards 
 away in a corner of the fence. 
 
 Having warmed ourselves at the fire 
 before extinguishing it — and not be- 
 fore, weary and disgusted, I had pro- 
 posed to spend the night by it — we re- 
 mounted for the prosecution of our jour- 
 ney. Warren was sure that it was a 
 plain road to the springs ; the horses 
 would easily find it ; the rain was dimin- 
 ishing, and it was yet early in the night. 
 We plucked up our spirits, and ven- 
 tured a jog-trot in the darkness. Our 
 steeds had their own way, except oc- 
 casionally an application of the spur 
 when they showed an unwillingness to 
 proceed. 
 
 We had just supposed we had gone 
 far enough to look out for the lights of 
 the springs, when "swash," "swash," 
 came something in my face, then a 
 stroke on the knee, and then some ob- 
 struction overhead that nearly dragged 
 me from my saddle. The evidences 
 were unmistakable : I had been smitten 
 by boughs of trees ; we were in the 
 woods! Nothing could be seen around 
 us : it was pitch-dark, and the rain was 
 yet falling. I twisted a piece of news- 
 paper out of my pocket to make a torch. 
 Warren had but one match left. It 
 fizzled, and then expired before I could 
 reach the paper to it. In dogged despe- 
 ration I would have rolled from my 
 mule, have put my back against a tree 
 and have waited for the morning ; but 
 Warren was more resolute and vigor- 
 ous. Having dismounted, he twisted a 
 white handkerchief around his hat as a 
 signal in the darkness, and commenced 
 X.O feeliox signs of a road. I coul-d only 
 follow helplessly through the darkness 
 after the white speck, holding out my 
 hands for fear of limbs of the trees that 
 might strike me. After groping about 
 some time, Warren was sure that he 
 had got into some sort of a road. It 
 was strewn with the loose and rotting 
 soil of the woods, but he could feel hard 
 earth at times, and prints of wheels in 
 it. It afterward proved, as we learned 
 next day, a mere wagon trace to bring 
 out wood cut in the forest ; and that my 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 companion should have discovered this 
 exit was, as he claimed, sheer luck, al- 
 though in the confidence he had now 
 established in me I was disposed to give 
 him credit for some of that mysterious 
 woodcraft which is supposed to be 
 learned in the mountains. 
 
 It was only by means of feeling that 
 Warren, after a while, could determine 
 that we had come out into a main road. 
 The question now was which way to 
 turn. In this instance, Warren's luck 
 forsook him, for we turned to the right, 
 exactly away from the route we should 
 have pursued to Eggleston's Springs, 
 the lights of which, as we discovered 
 next day, were not a half a mile to the 
 left, under a hill, on the brow of which 
 we had hesitated. We must have trav- 
 eled three miles : not a light visible, not 
 a sound heard but the groanings of the 
 dying storm or the splashes of the feet 
 of our slow steeds through puddle and 
 mud, assuring us that we were on a well- 
 traveled road. Suddenly, Warren drew 
 rein and commenced hallooing. He 
 told me to join in, and for several min- 
 utes we yelled like madmen, although I 
 had no idea what the demonstration 
 was intended for. A distant barking of 
 dogs at last replied, and I found that 
 Warren had ingeniously sought in this 
 way to find whether any human habita- 
 tions were near. We rode toward the 
 sound of the barking, exciting it when- 
 ever it ceased by resumed yells, so as to 
 get fresh indications of our way. Soon 
 the barking became furious, and we 
 judged that we were near some house. 
 We hallooed with increased zeal : there 
 must have been half a dozen dogs bark- 
 ing in line before us, but there was no 
 reply from any human voice. 
 
 "This won't do," exclaimed Warren : 
 "let us make our way through the dogs 
 and find the house." I could hear him 
 urging his horse forward. From a pas- 
 sionate exclamation I understood that 
 the animal recoiled, and that he had 
 dismounted to lead it. Suddenly, the 
 white crown made by the handkerchief 
 round his hat disappeared, as if swal- 
 lowed up in the ground. A laugh re- 
 assured me. Warren had tumbled some 
 
 six feet down a bank, but was uninjured 
 and was already on his feet. 
 
 Just then a strong but kindly voice 
 quieted the dogs and greeted our ears : 
 "Why, stranger, what's got hold of 
 you?" The owner of the voice, as far 
 as he could be perceived in the dark 
 when he had come up to us, was a large 
 man, bareheaded. He had been aroused 
 from his bed evidently in haste. We 
 explained our situation. The man re- 
 plied he had " no shelter fitten for stran- 
 gers," but very civilly gave us direc- 
 tions by which we might make a circuit 
 on the main road two miles and a. half 
 to the springs. But he added that the 
 springs being in the next valley, there 
 was a rough path over the ridge of the 
 mountain that might take us there in 
 half a mile. 
 
 I told him I was distressed and in 
 poor health, and unwilling to trust the 
 road. Would he guide us by the near 
 way ? and I would pay him anything he 
 asked for the service. 
 
 "Well, gentlemen," he replied, "I 
 will take you across the mountain." 
 Taking hold of Warren's bridle, he 
 struck out in the dark, my mule follow- 
 ing (for I had found that I could always 
 trust the beast for that). I could tell 
 that we were ascending a mountain only 
 from the spasmodic action of Jacky's 
 back and the necessity of clutching his 
 scant mane. We were half an hour 
 making the ascent. Then the mule 
 commenced stepping down, down, as 
 into a gulf of darkness, and as if its 
 lowest depth never would be reached. 
 But I had become desperate : the reins 
 dangled loosely on Jacky's neck, and 
 I no longer thought of precipices or 
 chasms. 
 
 Presently the mule'g feet sounded on 
 a hard, level road, and the cheerful 
 lights of Eggleston's Springs were seen 
 not a hundred yards away. I rode to 
 the side of our faithful guide. The no- 
 ble, hardy fellow, to my surprise, had 
 come bareheaded all the way : I felt his 
 shaggy hair drenched with the rain as I 
 reached out my hand in the dark to 
 grope for and to grasp his hard fist in 
 token of my gratitude. I asked, "What 
 
152 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 shall I pay you, my good sir, for your 
 great kindness ?" 
 
 ''Not a cent, stranger," he replied, 
 quietly : " I am jes' glad I got you out 
 of bein' lost." 
 
 Again and again we pressed money 
 upon him, or that he would come to the 
 springs and let us entertain him for the 
 night. He would take no reward, and 
 must return to his house. The beautiful 
 and touching grace of the act of kind- 
 ness done by this simple mountaineer 
 was, that he made nothing of it, and 
 seemed to be surprised that we thought 
 it remarkable. Yet this man had left 
 his comfortable bed, gone out in the 
 darkness to strangers who might have 
 been murderers or marauders for aught 
 he knew, and at their simple request 
 had gone with them, uncovered, through 
 the rain, toiling in mud, up and down a 
 rough mountain ; and now, storm- 
 drenched, at midnight, having to make 
 his way back home, this poor fellow — a 
 man who worked hard for his scanty 
 bread — who perhaps bitterly knew the 
 value of money — refused the least re- 
 ward for what he had done, and was 
 satisfied to take with him on the dark, 
 rough path on which he was to grope 
 back through the unceasing storm, the 
 consciousness of having done a kind- 
 ness to strangers. 
 
 Truly this world is made up of differ- 
 ent people ; but never have I been so 
 touched by the lesson of something good 
 and noble in human nature, never have 
 I thought better of my fellow-men, never 
 more sincerely thanked God for what 
 there is in this beautiful world, than 
 when shaking by the hand this rough 
 inhabitant of the mountains, this true 
 nobleman of Nature found in the forest. 
 
 The name of this man is George H. 
 Williams ; and I record it here as an 
 expression of gratitude and of admira- 
 tion which I am sure the reader will re- 
 spect. 
 
 THE BOTTOM FALLING OUT. 
 
 I WAS much amused by an anecdote I 
 had heard at Montgomery White Sul- 
 phur Springs. Some ladies there had 
 
 planned a trip to Salt Pond, a small lake 
 on the top of a mountain, and reputed 
 to be unfathomable. The anxious mam- 
 ma of one of the former insisted upon 
 exacting a promise from the gentleman 
 who was to escort the treasure of her 
 hopes that on no account should she be 
 permitted to venture into a boat and 
 go upon the water. The gentleman re- 
 monstrated that there could be no pos- 
 sible danger in this part of the amuse- 
 ments that had been designed. " I don't 
 
 know about that, Mr. A ," rejoined 
 
 the old lady: "it is a curious sort of 
 thing, that pond, and if I was on it 1 
 should feel all the time as if the bottovi 
 7nightfall out P' 
 
 A CONTRAST. 
 
 But what, asks the gentle reader, of 
 those female beauties of the mountain 
 pictured in poetry and read of in ro- 
 mances — creatures with gazelle eyes, 
 "hair flowing like Alpine torrents," 
 cheeks wooed by the breezes, etc., etc.? 
 Is there any antitype in reality of the 
 mountain maid, or is she but the ideal, 
 the wood nymph, of poets and romance- 
 writers ? In fact, it is to be confessed 
 that the female of "the child of Nature" 
 is not commonly prepossessing; and, 
 shocking as it may be to our poetical 
 preconceptions, the girl of the mountain 
 is usually found to be sallow, ungram- 
 matical and altogether unlovely, a 
 gawky specimen of ill-dressed human- 
 ity, having ropy hair, standing in clout- 
 ed brogans, and furnished with great 
 red, clawing hands. The disillusioning 
 process is sharp and painful enough. 
 But stop : we must not be too hasty in 
 our induction. Rare as may be the 
 mountain maid of the rural school of 
 poetry, there is such a being. And when 
 Nature, in her infinite variety of gifts, 
 does plant a flower of female beauty in 
 the mountains, does out of this remote 
 and uncultivated humanity mould a face 
 and form of loveliness, the creation is 
 as infinitely exquisite as it is bold. 
 
 When this creation is found, the type 
 of beauty can only be described by the 
 word "exquisite." and we find ourselves 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 153 
 
 wondering more at the perfect finish of 
 le picture than at any separate feature, 
 'he most perfectly beautiful girl the 
 'riter has even seen was from one of 
 le mountain homes of Tazewell. The 
 escription is merely that of an artist : 
 e knows nothing of her but a name 
 asually mentioned in a crowd. She 
 ras standing in the gathering of an ag- 
 icultural fair at Lynchburg. She was 
 ressed in the simplest merino, and a 
 ,risp of the commonest shawl had fallen 
 rom her shoulder and was twisted 
 round the firm hip, whose form Fash- 
 Dn had never disguised. The pose was 
 hat of the unconscious grace of a clas- 
 ic statue. A wealth of hair, of yellow- 
 5h-dark color streaked with red — that 
 awny, amorous hair so seldom seen — 
 loated down her shoulders, and was 
 natched by the warm light of young de- 
 ire that glowed on the cheeks and made 
 )ensive, half confessions as it swam like 
 he smouldering fire of a sacrifice in the 
 ;olden-blue depths of her eyes. The 
 ace was oval, classic, but warm from 
 
 the glow of a perpetual and insatiate 
 love, and the rich lips appeared con- 
 stantly pouted for kisses, that could 
 never be satisfied. It might have been 
 supposed that there was some mark of 
 uncultivation, of rusticity, to mar the 
 picture and to break the spell of the ad- 
 mirer. But no : Nature had done her 
 work with a completeness that left 
 nothing to be desired. The feet were 
 small and exquisitely formed. The un- 
 jeweled hands were as dainty as those 
 of a princess. Looking back at the 
 face, the expression of a pure, uncon- 
 scious voluptuousness that swam over 
 it, yet contained in the severest classical 
 types of virtue and modesty, was per- 
 fect. I have attempted no description 
 of the eyes. Mr. Longfellow has done 
 it in Hyperion : ' Eyes like the flower 
 of the nightshade, pale and blue, but 
 sending forth golden rays." Such hu- 
 man orbs are seldom seen. They haunt 
 us for ever : the form is withdrawn, the 
 face is absent — "only her eyes re- 
 mained." 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 " PURGATORY." 
 
 THE most romantic route to Punch- 
 eon Run Falls is undoubtedly that 
 which leads up the stream, clinging to 
 its banks or stepping along the rocks 
 
 beauty. Occasionally he may look a 
 long distance through the canon. For 
 miles the stream is closely confined 
 by walls of shrub -covered rock; and 
 in the patch of sky overhead the sun 
 is visible but for two 
 or three hours of the 
 day. An old moun- 
 taineer remarked 
 to us that none of 
 the deer, bears and 
 other wild animals 
 hunted in that vicin- 
 ity had ever been 
 known to attempt the 
 crossing of Puncheon 
 Run until it emerges 
 from the mountain, 
 io wild and violent is 
 its course through the 
 chasm above. 
 
 "purgatory" — VIEW ON PUNCHEON RUN 
 
 piled in its channel. It is perhaps not 
 more difficult than scrambling down the 
 mountain side ; and one who can work 
 his way through the "Purgatory" of 
 broken timber, brush and rock, will 
 be rewarded with vistas of wonderful 
 154 
 
 FISHER'S VIEW. 
 
 About five miles 
 from the Alleghany 
 Springs towers " Fish- 
 er's View"- — one of 
 the finest and most 
 characteristic moun- 
 tain views to be found 
 m this region. It is 
 approached by a well- 
 graded road, which 
 will soon be comple- 
 ted to the mountain 
 top, and which is now 
 eked out by a narrow 
 but sound path, along 
 which one may ride 
 safely on horseback. 
 A few dead, dismantled pines project 
 from the mountain comb, which affords 
 a view around half the horizon. A nat- 
 ural platform juts out, a convenient ob- 
 servatory strewed with leaves and dead 
 soil, on which we may luxuriously re- 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 155 
 
 cline while "taking in" the delicious 
 beauties of the scene. 
 
 We have described it as a character- 
 istic mountain view. It is emphatically 
 such, and one obtains here a vivid gen- 
 eral idea, a typical impression, of the 
 aspects of our mountainous country. 
 There is scarcely any breadth of land- 
 scape in the scene, if we except a patch 
 of open land on which glimmer the 
 white cottages of the springs, and im- 
 perfect glimpses of a valley of gray 
 fields breaking away toward the Vir- 
 
 ginia and Tennessee Railroad. It is 
 mountains — mountains all around, 
 mountains interminable : now running 
 in straight ranges with almost mathe- 
 matical precision, now rising into pyra- 
 midal points, now jagged and indented 
 by the blue sky. A companion com- 
 pared the knotted expanse to "tobacco 
 hills." Yet more striking was the home- 
 ly phrase of an old lady who had never 
 lived above tidewater, and who, having 
 been transported in the night-time on 
 a swift railroad over the Blue Ridee, 
 
 FISHER'S VIEW. 
 
 looked in the morning from the win- 
 dows of the cars, and exclaimed, " Law 
 sakes ! what a biatipy country !" 
 
 The name of the view is taken from 
 Fisher, the artist, who made a picture 
 of it last season, declaring that he had 
 seen nothing in Europe to equal its wild 
 and unkempt variety. It is seldom, in- 
 deed, that a mountain scene is so little 
 disturbed by "clearings," or any signs 
 of cultivation. Except the buildings of 
 the Alleghany Springs, which lie at our 
 feet, there is nothing in the intervening 
 valleys to indicate the presence of man ; 
 while, in the distance, the huge moun- 
 tains, dark, forbidding and sombre, do 
 
 not relent from their frown until far 
 away the dark blue grows fainter and 
 fainter, and they soften to meet the em- 
 braces of the sky and mingle in the 
 same lisrht cerulean hue. 
 
 LITTLE STONY FALLS. 
 
 Little Stony Creek is a tributary 
 worthy of New River. We had to ride 
 seven miles from Eggleston's Springs to 
 find it, hid as it is in a deep and narrow 
 valley. Hitching our steeds at a saw- 
 mill, we provided ourselves with veri- 
 table pilgrims' staffs to aid us on the rug- 
 ged path to the Falls, half a mile below. 
 
156 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 The stream has an average width of 
 fifteen or eighteen feet, but the descent 
 is great, and the water rushes through 
 a deep channel with the volume and 
 contention of a mountain torrent. At 
 times it darts by us with arrowy swift- 
 ness ; a cape of rock wounds its side, 
 and it writhes for a moment as if in 
 torment ; again it passes into cascades, 
 
 LITTLE STONY FALLS. 
 
 with here and there a divided current 
 wandering playfully away to a worn 
 basin, and throwing up drops of silvery 
 water far into the air. 
 
 The path was rough and difficult 
 enough to please my romantic notions. 
 At one place, where we had to cross the 
 stream, we found the rude bridge had 
 been swept away, and our only resource 
 
 was to "coon" a small tree, thick with 
 branches, that was found lower down 
 fallen across the chasm. The process 
 is to straddle the tree and work the body 
 along by the hands, with the necessity 
 of "spraddling" in a very ungraceful 
 manner whenever a limb jutting out 
 from the body of the tree is encountered. 
 I was some time working my passage, 
 and I found that War- 
 ren, who was in my 
 rear, had been amus- 
 ing himself with mak- 
 ing a pencil sketch 
 of the performance. 
 
 But there was no 
 time for idling, for 
 the sound of the Falls 
 was already in our 
 ears. Spanning a turn 
 of the stream, we 
 come to a decayed 
 wooden walk just on 
 the brow of the Falls, 
 and affording an ex- 
 cellent view. The 
 water descends sixty 
 feet clear ; breaks in 
 wild confusion upon 
 a succession of short 
 falls, and then rocks 
 itself in a wide, worn 
 basin fifty feet deep. 
 The impetuosity of 
 the stream has be- 
 fore been spoken of, 
 but here it is grand : 
 it does not fall, but it 
 leaps far out into the 
 air, and we might 
 easily stand between 
 _^ it and the wall of 
 
 ■---"' blank rock that mea- 
 
 sures the descent. 
 With a fierce, almost 
 deafening, sound the stream springs 
 over the chasm. It is fearfully lifelike, 
 and makes one involuntarily shudder 
 as the torrent, with frothy lip and wild 
 scream, leaps past us to the torture of 
 the rocks below. 
 
 At the foot of the Falls the scene and 
 sounds are less terrific. We hear the 
 incessant trampling of the waters on a 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 157 
 
 succession of short falls below. There 
 are graceful shadows on the rocky face 
 of the cliff; miniature rainbows hang 
 around the falling waters ; and for a 
 hundred yards, such is the force of the 
 main fall, the mist floats in the sun- 
 beams and dances in our faces. The 
 framing of the picture is curious. The 
 entire structure of rock is seamed like 
 masonry, and the abutments are almost 
 as well defined as if the hand of man 
 had reared them. But the other sur- 
 roundings of the scene overpower the 
 suggestion of Art having intruded here. 
 
 A mountain crested with towering 
 plumes guards the scene, and Nature 
 reigns in unbroken grandeur around. 
 
 THE LURAY VALLEY. 
 
 The Valley of Virginia properly ex- 
 tends from the wall of the Alleghany 
 to the edge of the terrace known as the 
 Atlantic slope, which rises above the 
 maritime or Atlantic plain — this latter 
 at its extremity south of Virginia join- 
 ing the plain of the Mississippi. The 
 features of it are ridges of hills and 
 
 THL LLRW \ ALl I V 
 
 long valleys running parallel to the 
 mountains. It is rich in soil and culti- 
 vation, and has an immense water- 
 power in the streams and rivers which, 
 flowing from the mountains across it, 
 are precipitated over its rocky edge to 
 the plains below. It has been calcu- 
 lated that Rockbridge county alone has 
 in water-power and sites a capacity for 
 manufacturing greater than that of the 
 whole State of Massachusetts ! 
 
 In a more limited and more common 
 acceptation, the Valley of Virginia has 
 its head in the tract of country between 
 Lexington and Staunton, becoming well 
 
 defined toward the latter place, thence 
 gradually widening toward the Potomac, 
 and debouching into the hill region of 
 Pennsylvania. In the late war it was a 
 prominent theatre of strategy, as it af- 
 forded the most obvious avenue for an 
 attack on Washington, exposing that 
 city to constant danger from a flank 
 movement. 
 
 The most remarkable flexure or minor 
 formation of the valley occurs near the 
 middle of it. About half-way between 
 Staunton and the Potomac two ranges 
 of mountains run parallel for twenty- 
 five miles, uniting in Massanutten (Mes- 
 
158 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 inetto) Mountain, which divides the 
 branches of the Shenandoah, and ends 
 abruptly on the south in Rockingham 
 county. This is the Luray Valley — a 
 beautiful vale branching off from and 
 thence running parallel to that main 
 gallery through which the troops of 
 Stonewall Jackson marched in 1862, 
 and where that warrior won his first 
 
 VIEW ON DRY CREEK. 
 
 and imperishable laurels. It was terri- 
 bly devasted at a later day by Sheridan. 
 The beauties of this valley have often 
 been told. Nothing can exceed the 
 loveliness of the Shenandoah in this 
 part of its course. Straying by its 
 banks, we watch the waters rippling 
 under the mottled arms of the syca- 
 mores. There is the swell of turf and 
 slanting branches on the hillside ; the 
 
 spaces of the deep blue sky, at which 
 we look from the narrow vales j utting 
 on the stream, are edged round with 
 dark tree-tops ; and beyond is the forest 
 full of whispered mysteries, within which 
 are the dramas of a thousand creations 
 — the birth, life and death of unseen 
 flowers. The picture must be badly 
 stripped in winter. What differences, 
 indeed, wrought by 
 the seasons on all 
 this "pomp of groves 
 and garniture of 
 fields !" Now tresses 
 of newly-budded 
 flowers hung up in 
 the forest, now "hon- 
 eycombs of green," 
 and on the warm 
 fields the freckled 
 wings of the butter- 
 fly ; anon the yellow 
 leaves, and the owl's 
 cry of coming winter. 
 
 DRY CREEK. 
 
 A RADIUS of about 
 forty miles, sweeping 
 from the Greenbrier 
 White Sulphur as a 
 centre, will describe 
 a circle containing 
 the most important 
 part of the Springs 
 Region of Virginia. 
 Within this circle we 
 have to the north the 
 famous cluster of 
 springs in Bath coun- 
 . ty — the Warm, the 
 Hot, the Healing and 
 the Alum Springs ; 
 the distance to the 
 former measured by the common route 
 of travel being thirty-five miles ; to the 
 east, the Sweet Springs, seventeen miles 
 from the common centre ; to the south, 
 the Salt Sulphur Springs, twenty-four 
 miles, and the Red Sulphur Springs, 
 forty-one miles ; and to the west, the 
 Blue Sulphur Springs, twenty-two miles. 
 In leaving this centre of the Springs 
 Region in anv direction, we can scarce- 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 ^59 
 
 ly fail to meet refreshing views of moun- 
 tain scenery. They lie on every hand. 
 A general description might suit them 
 all, and we select from our sketch-book 
 but one, taken from the scenery of the 
 Greenbrier. It is on Dry Creek, a few 
 miles from the White Sulphur, and may 
 be regarded as a specimen of the ex- 
 tent and combination of mountain views 
 in this part of Vir- 
 ginia. The moun- 
 tains are not so high 
 or so steep as where 
 the Alleghany ridge 
 is more severely de- 
 fined ; the views are 
 softer ; there is more 
 breadth of landscape ; 
 there is more for the 
 eye to distinguish and 
 to combine ; and the 
 distant mountains, in- 
 stead of being thrust 
 up as boundaries to 
 our vision, "swell 
 from the vale," and 
 are lost in pleasing 
 indistinctness near 
 the rim of the hori- 
 zon. In fact, each of 
 the characteristic pic- 
 tures of mountain 
 scenery in Virginia 
 has its merits : that 
 which rises in clear 
 and abrupt outlines 
 against the sky, and 
 gives bold and dis- 
 tinct effects, and that 
 which in infinite va- 
 riety of landscape 
 reaches to the limits 
 of vision, and with a ~" 
 
 mingling of effects 
 yet prefers the pictu- 
 resque to the sublime. 
 
 TROUT POOL. 
 
 The Healing Springs are three miles 
 distant from the Hot, and eight miles 
 from the Warm Springs. The scenes 
 around invite the visitor to numerous 
 walks and repay him with varied recrea- 
 
 tions. The valley is hemmed on every 
 side by the coolest and deepest shades, 
 while the buildings shine pleasantly 
 through the trees. On one side, the 
 Warm Springs Mountain pierces the sky 
 with its long bleak boundary, and lower 
 ledges of rock guard recesses which we 
 shrink at first from exploring, but once 
 secluded in which we find places of re- 
 
 TROUT POOL. 
 
 pose and enjoy a delightful and perfect 
 solitude. At the end of a short walk is 
 a cascade, falling into a gorge where 
 the sun at noonday penetrates with 
 shorn rays and distributes a soft and 
 shaded light. It shines, however, with 
 full splendor on the snowy wreaths 
 which the falling water has twined on 
 the srreat rocks. 
 
i6o 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 A pleasant recreation is here for the 
 angler, who with pliant rod draws "the 
 gamest of game fish," the speckled 
 trout, from his native element. The 
 sport is as much that of hunting as of 
 fishing, as the angler has to steal upon 
 this timid fish, disporting in the clear, 
 crystal stream, with as silent and stealthy 
 a tread as if still-hunting for dter. He 
 creeps softly along the stream, conceal- 
 ing himself behind a rock, bush or bluff, 
 careful to throw no shadow on the wa- 
 ter •. from his cover he casts his line 
 with a long pole ; the hook is taken at 
 once greedily, if the trout has not been 
 alarmed ; and the glittering spoil, with 
 its purple and gold yet reeking with 
 water, is thrown panting on the green 
 sward. It is a fine sport, but we must 
 avoid noise, and practice a careful step, 
 or we spoil the catch. The mountain 
 trout is a gem to look at, and a sweet 
 morsel for the palate when the last 
 offices of the kitchen have been done 
 for him. 
 
 THE NATURAL BRIDGE. 
 
 There was a time when the Natural 
 Bridge was esteemed among the great- 
 est wonders of this continent. Of late 
 years it has languished in obscurity 
 and neglect, visited only by stray trav- 
 elers from the Virginia Springs, or by 
 frugal pic-nic parties from the near town 
 of Lexington and the neighborhood : so 
 at least we inferred from a notice ex- 
 traordinary posted at the hotel, warning 
 visitors who omit to patronize the larder 
 that they will be charged fifty cents a 
 head for the privilege of looking at the 
 Bridge ! The neglect of this sublime 
 spectacle, once so attractive to the mul- 
 titude of sight-seers, is difficult to be 
 explained when we consider the easy 
 access to it. 
 
 The common route is by way of 
 Lynchburg, thence thirty-eight miles on 
 the James River and Kanawha Canal. 
 The canal divides immediately at the 
 foot of the Blue Ridge, one section ex- 
 tending up the North River to the town 
 of Lexington, and the other pursuing 
 the banks of the James to Buchanan, 
 
 short of which you can stop at the 
 mouth of Cedar Creek, within two miles 
 of the Natural Bridge. From a few 
 miles above Lynchburg the route by 
 the canal is adorned with mountain 
 scenery of the richest and most varied 
 description, and the traveler passes 
 slowly, going scarcely more than three 
 miles an hour, through an almost con- 
 tinuous gallery of pictures. The writer 
 on his trip had the advantage of a 
 moonlit night and of the company of 
 some musical ladies. As the boat 
 moves slowly and so easily that unless 
 for passing objects you can imagine it 
 at rest, you see an horizon broken and 
 pierced with mountain spurs ; at one 
 time under the shadow of great cliffs, 
 again passing along silver-clad willows, 
 where the James flows placidly through 
 meadows with the trophy of shivered 
 moonbeams on its bosom ; in the dis- 
 tance mountains with twinkling fires 
 on them, or the red glare of burning 
 woods kindled by stray fires during the 
 drought ; and so, in this dioramic pro- 
 cession, with the music of sweet voices 
 in the air, and the melancholy wail of 
 the boatman's horn occasionally intrud- 
 ing, we travel on to the rugged back- 
 bone of the Blue Ridge. 
 
 Here, where the James River emerges 
 from the mountains on the line of Am- 
 herst and Rockbridge counties, the 
 scene is surpassingly picturesque. Over- 
 looking Balcony Falls, the pyramid- 
 shaped mountain throws in the night 
 its pointed shadow on the mingled wa- 
 ters of the James and North Rivers like 
 a great spear-head to divide them. 
 Where it terminates in the water it falls 
 in a precipitous cliff, the rocky face of 
 which looked at once grand and weird 
 as we saw it in the moonlight. A branch 
 of the canal, as we have said, proceeds 
 up the North River, Avhile that along the 
 banks of the James, which we pursue 
 to our destination, passes into a wilder 
 scene. 
 
 The stage-road, coincident here with 
 the canal — either conveyance being at 
 the choice of the traveler — affords a 
 succession of views of the most pictu- 
 resque and romantic character. As the 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 i6i 
 
 traveler enters the gap of the Blue 
 Ridge from the east, the winding course 
 of the stage-coach carries him up the 
 mountain's side until he has gained an 
 elevation of hundreds of feet above the 
 James, over the waters of which the zig- 
 zag and rotten road hangs fearfully. 
 On every side are gigantic mountains, 
 intersected by black ravines ; and a 
 mountain rivulet, 
 slight and glittering 
 from amid the prim- _^^ 
 
 eval forest, dashes 
 across the path, and, 
 leaping from rock to 
 rock, goes joyously 
 on its way. 
 
 On the North River 
 the scenes are quiet- 
 er. Emerging here, 
 the traveler sees a 
 beautiful and fertile 
 country opening be- 
 fore him, while the 
 blue outlines still far- 
 ther west of distant 
 mountains in Rock- 
 bridge bound his vis- 
 ion. The water scene- 
 ry is beautiful. Love- 
 ly valleys debouch 
 upon the stream; 
 there are peaceful 
 shadows in the steel- 
 blue waters ; and on 
 the broad shoulders 
 of the cattle on the 
 banks we see the dra- 
 pery of the shadows 
 of the trees beneath 
 which they rest. The 
 fisherman standing 
 leg-deep in the water 
 can see his face as in 
 a mirror. 
 
 But at present our way does not lie 
 through these scenes. The canal-boat 
 is taking us along the James in the 
 moonlit night, and by the time the day 
 has broken we are within two miles of 
 the Natural Bridge. A rickety team 
 awaits us at the lock-house where we 
 disembark Through an air filled with 
 golden vapor, and with the mists of the 
 II 
 
 morning yet hanging in the trees by the 
 wayside, we proceed on our journey. 
 The old stage-coach lumbers along un- 
 der the thick, overhanging boughs of the 
 forest pines, which scrape its top or strike 
 in through the windows, scattering the 
 dew-drops in the very faces of the pas- 
 sengers, or perhaps smiting their cheeks 
 with the sharp-pointed leaves. 
 
 SCENE ON NORTH RIVER. 
 
 Bridge is ob- 
 it at a turn in 
 
 The first view of the 
 tained half a mile from 
 the stage-road. It is revealed with the 
 suddenness of an apparition. Raised a 
 hundred feet above the highest trees of 
 the forest, and relieved against the pur- 
 ple side of a distant mountain, a whitish- 
 gray arch is seen, in the distance as 
 perfect and clean-cut as tne Egyptian 
 inventor of the arch could have defined. 
 
l62 
 
 THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 The tops of trees are waving in the in- 
 terval, and we are relieved from the 
 first impression that it is man's mason- 
 ry, the work of art, on finding that it 
 supports some fifteen or twenty feet of 
 soil, in which trees and shrubbery are 
 firmly imbedded — the verdant crown 
 and testimony of Nature's great work. 
 Here too we are divested of a notion 
 which we believe is the popular one, 
 that the Bridge is merely a huge slab 
 of rock thrown across a chasm, or some 
 such hasty and violent arrangement. 
 It is no such thing. The arch and the 
 approaches to it are formed of one 
 solid rock : the average width of that 
 portion which forms the Bridge is eighty 
 feet, and beyond this the rock extends 
 for a hundred feet or so in mural preci- 
 pices, divided by only a single fissure, 
 that makes a natural pier on the upper 
 side of the Bridge, and up which climb 
 the hardy firs, ascending step by step 
 on the noble rock-work till they over- 
 shadow you. 
 
 This mighty rock, a single mass sunk 
 in the earth's side, of which even what 
 appears is stupendous, is of the same 
 geological character — limestone cover- 
 ed to the depth of from four to six feet 
 with alluvial and clayey earth. The 
 span of the arch runs from forty-five to 
 sixty feet wide, and its height to the 
 under line is one hundred and ninety- 
 six feet, and to the head two hundred 
 and fifteen feet. The form of the arch 
 approaches the elliptical : the stage- 
 road which passes over the Bridge 
 runs from north to south, with an in- 
 cline of thirty-five degrees, and the 
 arch is carried over on a diagonal line 
 — the very line of all others the most 
 difficult for the architect to realize, and 
 the one best calculated for picturesque 
 effects. It is the proportions of Art in 
 this wild, strange work of Nature, its 
 adjustment in the very perfection of 
 mechanical skill, its apparently deliber- 
 ate purpose, that render it an object of 
 interest and of wonder. The deep ra- 
 vine over which it shoots, and which is 
 traversed by the beautiful Cedar Creek, 
 is not otherwise easily passed for sev- 
 eral miles, either above or below the 
 
 Bridge. It is needful to the spot, and 
 yet so little likely to have survived the 
 great fracture the evidences of which 
 are visible around, and which has made 
 a fissure of about ninety feet through 
 the breadth of a rock-ribbed hill, that 
 we are at first disposed to reflect upon 
 it as the work of man. It is only when 
 we contemplate its full measure of gian- 
 deur that we are assured it is the work 
 of God. We have the pier, the arch, 
 the studied angle of ascent ; and that 
 nothing might be wanted in the evi- 
 dences of design, the Bridge is guarded 
 by a parapet of rocks, so covered with 
 fine shrubs and trees that a person trav- 
 eling the stage-road which runs over it 
 would, if not informed of the curiosity, 
 pass it unnoticed. 
 
 But let him approach through the 
 foliage to the side. More than two 
 hundred feet below is the creek, appa- 
 rently motionless, except where it flashes 
 with light as it breaks on an obstruction 
 in the channel : there are trees, attain- 
 ing to grander heights as they ascend 
 the face of the pier ; and far below this 
 bed of verdure the majestic rock rises 
 with the sharpness of a wall, and the 
 spectator shrinks from contemplating 
 the grand but cruel depths, and turns 
 away with dizzy sensations. But the 
 most effective view is from the base of 
 the Bridge, whither you descend by a cir- 
 cuitous and romantic path. To escape 
 from the hot sun into these verdant and 
 cool bottoms is of itself a luxury, and it 
 prepares you for the deliberate enjoy- 
 ment of the scene. Everything reposes 
 in the most delightful shade, setoff by the 
 streaming rays of the sun, which shoot 
 across the head of the picture far above 
 you, and sweeten with softer touches 
 the solitude below. Standing by the 
 rippling, gushing waters of the creek, 
 and raising your eyes to the arch, mas- 
 sive and yet light and beautiful from 
 its height, its elevation apparently in- 
 creased by the narrowness of its piers 
 and bv its projection on the blue sky, 
 you gaze on this marvel of Nature with 
 increased astonishment. When you 
 have sustained this view of the arch 
 raised against the sky, its black patches 
 
THE VIRGINIA TOURIST. 
 
 163 
 
 here and there shaped by the imagina- 
 tion into grand and weird figures — 
 among them the eagle, the lion's head, 
 and the heroic countenance of Wash- 
 ington : when you have taken in the 
 proportions and circumstances of this 
 elevated and wide span of rock — so 
 wide that the skies seem to slope from 
 it to the horizon — you are called to in- 
 vestigate other features of the scene 
 which strain the mind and the eyesight 
 less, and are distributed around in al- 
 most endless variety. Looking through 
 the arch, the eye is engaged with a va- 
 rious vista. Just beyond rises the fray- 
 ed, unseamed wall of rock ; the purple 
 mountains stand out in the background : 
 beneath them is a row of hills and mat- 
 ted woods enclosing the dell below, 
 while the creek coursing away from 
 them appears to have been fed in their 
 recesses. A few feet above the bridge 
 the stream detlects, and invites to a 
 
 point of view of the most curious eflfect. 
 Taking a few steps backward, we see 
 the interval of sky between the great 
 abutments gradually shut out : thus ap- 
 parently joined or lapped over, they 
 give the effect of the face of a rock, 
 with a straight seam running down it, 
 and the imagination seizes the picture 
 as of mighty gates closed upon us, and 
 leaving no outlet from the contracted 
 circle of mountains and hills. Now let 
 us move across to a position fronting 
 where these gates apparently close. 
 Slowly they seem to swing open on un- 
 seen and noiseless hinges ; wider and 
 wider grows the happy interval of sky, 
 until at last wide open stands the gate- 
 way raised above the forest, resting as 
 it were on the brow of heaven — a world 
 lying beyond it, its rivers and its hills 
 expanding themselves to the light and 
 splendor of the unshadowed day. 
 
I^OIPTJXjJLI^ IsTO'VEXjS 
 
 I»UHI^I©HEI> BY 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 BLANCHE GILROY. 
 
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i 
 
 ifoi^tjxj^i?, nsro^v^ELs 
 
 FUKLISHEO BY 
 
 P 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 OUIDA'S WORKS. 
 
 TRICOTRIN. 
 
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 His Vicissitudes, Adventures, Observations, 
 
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