Voyage of the Paper Canoe - Chapters V-VII



CHAPTER V. 
THE AMERICAN PAPER BOAT AND ENGLISH CANOES.
THE PECULIAR CHARACTER OF THE PAPER BOAT. -- THE HISTORY OF THE ADOPTION 
OF PAPER FOR BOATS. -- A BOY'S INGENUITY. -- THE PROCESS OF BUILDING PAPER 
BOATS DESCRIBED. -- COLLEGE CLUBS ADOPTING THEM. -- THE GREAT VICTORIES 
WON BY PAPER OVER WOODEN SHELLS IN 1876. 

Inquiries regarding the history and durability of paper boats occasionally 
reach me through the medium of the post-office. After all the uses to 
which paper has been put during the last twenty years, the public is yet 
hardly convinced that the flimsy material, paper, can successfully take 
the place of wood in the construction of light pleasure-boats, canoes, and 
racing shells. Yet the idea has become an accomplished fact. The success 
of the victorious paper shells of the Cornell College navy, which were 
enlisted in the struggles of two seasons at Saratoga, against no mean 
antagonists, -- the college crews of the United States, -- surely proves 
that in strength, stiffness, speed, and fineness of model, the paper boat 
is without a rival. 

When used in its own peculiar sphere, the improved paper boat will be 
found to possess the following merits: less weight, greater strength, 
stiffness, durability, and speed than a wooden boat of the same size and 
model; and the moulded paper shell will retain the delicate lines so 
essential to speed, while the brittle wooden shell yields more or less to 
the warping influences of sun and moisture. A comparison of the strength 
of wood and paper for boats has been made by a writer in the Cornell 
Times, a journal published by the students of that celebrated New York 
college: 

"Let us take a piece of wood and a piece of paper of the same thickness, 
and experiment with, use, and abuse them both to the same extent. Let the 
wood be of one-eighth of an inch in thickness -- the usual thickness of 
shell-boats, and the paper heavy pasteboard, both one foot square. Holding 
them up by one side, strike them with a hammer, and observe the result. 
The wood will be cracked, to say the least; the pasteboard, whirled out of 
your hand, will only be dented, at most. Take hold and bend them: the wood 
bends to a certain degree, and then splits; the pasteboard, bent to the 
same degree, is not affected in the least. Take a knife and strike them: 
the wood is again split, the pasteboard only pierced. Place them on the 
water: the wood floats for an indefinite time; the pasteboard, after a 
time, soaks, and finally sinks, as was to be expected. But suppose we soak 
the pasteboard in marine glue before the experiment, then we find the 
pasteboard equally as impervious to the water as wood, and as buoyant, if 
of the same weight; but, to be of the same weight, it must be thinner than 
the wood, yet even then it stands the before-mentioned tests as well as 
when thicker; and it will be found to stand all tests much better than 
wood, even when it weighs considerably less. 

"Now, enlarging our pieces, and moulding them into boats of the same 
weight, we find the following differences: Wood, being stiff and liable to 
split, can only be moulded into comparative form. Paper, since it can be 
rendered perfectly pliable, can be pressed into any shape desirable; 
hence, any wished-for fineness of lines can be given to the model, and the 
paper will assume the identical shape, after which it can be water-
proofed, hardened, and polished. Paper neither swells, nor shrinks, nor 
cracks, hence it does not leak, is always ready for use, always 
serviceable. As to cost, there is very little difference between the two; 
the cost being within twenty-five dollars, more or less, the same for 
both. Those who use paper boats think them very near perfection; and 
surely those who have the most to do with boats ought to know, prejudice 
aside, which is the best." 

An injury to a paper boat is easily repaired by a patch of strong paper 
and a coating of shellac put on with a hot iron. As the paper boat is a 
novelty with many people, a sketch of its early history may prove 
interesting to the reader. Mr. George A. Waters, the son of the senior 
member of the firm of E. Waters & Sons, of Troy, New York, was invited 
some years since to a masquerade party. The boy repaired to a toy shop to 
purchase a counterfeit face; but, thinking the price (eight dollars) was 
more than he could afford for a single evening's sport, he borrowed the 
mask for a model, from which he produced a duplicate as perfect as was the 
original. While engaged upon his novel work, an idea impressed itself upon 
his ingenious brain. "Cannot," he queried, "a paper shell be made upon the 
wooden model of a boat? And will not a shell thus produced, after being 
treated to a coat of varnish, float as well, and be lighter than a wooden 
boat?" 

This was in March, 1867, while the youth was engaged in the manufacture of 
paper boxes. Having repaired a wooden shell-boat by covering the cracks 
with sheets of stout paper cemented to the wood, the result satisfied him; 
and he immediately applied his attention to the further development of his 
bright idea. Assisted by his father, Mr. Elisha Waters, the enterprise was 
commenced "by taking a wooden shell, thirteen inches wide and thirty feet 
long, as a mould, and covering the entire surface of its bottom and sides 
with small sheets of strong Manila paper, glued together, and superposed 
on each other, so that the joints of one layer were covered by the middle 
of the sheet immediately above, until a sheet of paper had been formed one-
sixteenth of an inch in thickness. The fabric thus constructed, after 
being carefully dried, was removed from the mould and fitted up with a 
suitable frame, consisting of a lower keelson, two inwales, the bulkhead; 
in short, all the usual parts of the frame of a wooden shell, except the 
timbers, or ribs, of which none were used -- the extreme stiffness of the 
skin rendering them unnecessary. Its surface was then carefully 
waterproofed with suitable varnishes, and the work was completed. Trials 
proved that, rude as was this first attempt compared with the elegant 
craft now turned out from paper, it had marked merits, among which were, 
its remarkable stiffness, the symmetry of the hull with respect to its 
long axis, and the smoothness of the water-surface." 

A gentleman, who possesses excellent judgment and long experience in all 
that relates to paper boats, furnishes me with the following valuable 
information, which I feel sure will interest the reader. 

"The process of building the paper shell-boat is as follows: The 
dimensions of the boat having been determined upon, the first step is to 
construct a wooden model, or form, an exact facsimile of the desired boat, 
on which to mould the paper skin. For this purpose the lines of the boat 
are carefully drawn out of the full size, and from the drawings thus made 
the model is prepared. It is built of layers of well-seasoned pine, 
securely fastened together to form one solid mass; which, after having 
been laid up of the general outline required, is carefully worked off, 
until its surface, which is made perfectly smooth, exactly conforms to the 
selected lines, and its beam, depth, and length are those of the given 
boat. During the process of its construction, suitable rabbets are cut to 
receive the lower keelson, the two inwales, and the bow and stern 
deadwoods, which, being put in position, are worked off so that their 
surfaces are flush with that of the model, and forming, as it were, an 
integral part of it. It being important that these parts should, in the 
completed boat, be firmly attached to the skin, their surface is, at this 
part of the process, covered with a suitable adhesive preparation. 

"The model is now ready to be covered with paper. Two kinds are used: that 
made from the best Manila, and that prepared from pure unbleached linen 
stock; the sheets being the full length of the model, no matter what that 
may be. If Manila paper is used, the first sheet is dampened, laid 
smoothly on the model, and securely fastened in place by tacking it to 
certain rough strips attached to its upper face. Other sheets are now 
superposed on this and on each other, and suitably cemented together; the 
number depending upon the size of the boat and the stiffness required. If 
linen paper is used, but one sheet is employed, of such weight and 
dimensions that, when dry, it will give just the thickness of skin 
necessary. Should the surface of the model be concave in parts, as in the 
run of boats with square sterns for instance, the paper is made to conform 
to these surfaces by suitable convex moulds, which also hold the paper in 
place until, by drying, it has taken and will retain the desired form. The 
model, with its enveloping coat of paper, is now removed to the dry-room. 
As the paper skin dries, all wrinkles disappear, and it gradually assumes 
the desired shape. Finally, when all moisture has been evaporated, it is 
taken from the mould an exact fac-simile of the model desired, exceedingly 
stiff, perfectly symmetrical, and seamless. 

"The paper is now subjected to the water-proof process, and the skin, with 
its keelson, inwales, and dead-woods attached, is then placed in the 
carpenter's hands, where the frame is completed in the usual manner, as 
described for wooden boats. The paper decks being put on, it is then ready 
for the brass, iron, and varnish work. As the skins of these boats (racing-
shells) vary from one-sixteenth of an inch in the singles, to one-twelfth 
of an inch in the six-oared outriggers, the wooden frame becomes necessary 
to support and keep them in shape. In applying this invention to gigs, 
dingys, canoes, and skiffs, a somewhat different method is adopted. Since 
these boats are subjected to much hard service, and must be so constructed 
as to permit the occupant to move about in them as is usual in such craft, 
a light and strong frame of wood is prepared, composed of a suitable 
number of pairs of ribs, with stem and stern pieces cut from the natural 
crooks of hackmatack roots. These are firmly framed to two gunwales and a 
keelson, extending the length of the boat; the whole forming the skeleton 
shape of the desired model. The forms for these boats having been 
prepared, as already described for the racing-shells, and the frame being 
let into this form, so that the outer surface of the ribs, stem and stern 
pieces will conform with its outer surface, the paper skin is next laid 
upon it. The skin, manufactured from new, unbleached linen stock, is 
carefully stretched in place, and when perfectly dry is from one-tenth to 
three-sixteenths of an inch thick. Removed from the model, it is water-
proofed, the frame and fittings completed, and the boat varnished. In 
short, in this class of boats, the shape, style, and finish are precisely 
that of wooden ones, of corresponding dimensions and class, except that 
for the usual wooden sheathing is substituted the paper skin as described. 

"The advantages possessed by these boats over those of wood are: 

"By the use of this material for the skins of racing-shells, where 
experience has demonstrated the smooth bottom to be the best, under-water 
lines of any degree of fineness can be developed, which cannot 
successfully be produced in those of wood, even where the streaks are so 
reduced in thickness that strength, stiffness, and durability are either 
wholly sacrificed or greatly impaired. In the finer varieties of 'dug-
outs' equally fine lines can be obtained; but so delicate are such boats, 
if the sides are reduced to three-sixteenths of an inch or less in 
thickness, that it is found practically impossible to preserve their 
original forms for any length of time. Hence, so far as this point is 
concerned, it only remains for the builder to select those models which 
science, guided by experience, points out as the best. 

"The paper skin, after being water-proofed, is finished with hard 
varnishes, and then presents a solid, perfectly smooth, and horny surface 
to the action of the water, unbroken by joint, lap, or seam. This surface 
admits of being polished as smooth as a coach-panel or a mirror. Unlike 
wood, it has no grain to be cracked or split, it never shrinks, and, paper 
being one of the best of non-conductors, no ordinary degree of heat or 
cold affects its shape or hardness, and hence these boats are admirably 
adapted for use in all climates. As the skin absorbs no moisture, these 
boats gain no weight by use, and, having no moisture to give off when out 
of the water, they do not, like wooden boats, show the effect of exposure 
to the air by leaking. They are, therefore, in this respect always 
prepared for service. 

"The strength and stiffness of the paper shells are most remarkable. To 
demonstrate it, a single shell of twelve inch beam and twenty-eight feet 
long, fitted complete with its outriggers, the hull weighing twenty-two 
pounds, was placed on two trestles eight feet apart, in such a manner that 
the trestles were each the same distance from the centre of the cockpit, 
which was thus entirely unsupported. A man weighing one hundred and forty 
pounds then seated himself in it, and remained in this position three 
minutes. The deflection caused by this strain, being accurately measured, 
was found to be one-sixteenth of an inch at a point midway between the 
supports. If this load, applied under such abnormal conditions, produced 
so little effect, we can safely assume that, when thus loaded and resting 
on the water, supported throughout her whole length, and the load far more 
equally distributed over the whole frame, there would be no deflection 
whatever. 

"Lightness, when combined with a proper, stiffness and strength, being a 
very desirable quality, it is here that the paper boats far excel their 
wooden rivals. If two shells are selected, the one of wood and the other 
with a paper skin and deck, as has been described, of the same dimensions 
and equally stiff, careful experiment proves that the wooden one will be 
thirty per cent. the heaviest. If those of the same dimensions and equal 
weight are compared, the paper one will be found to exceed the wooden one 
in stiffness and in capacity to resist torsional strains in the same 
proportion. Frequent boasts are made that wooden shells can be and are 
built much lighter than paper ones; and if the quality of lightness alone 
is considered, this is true; yet when the practical test of use is 
applied, such extremely light wooden boats have always proved, and will 
continue to prove, failures, as here this quality is only one of a number 
which combine to make the boat serviceable. A wooden shell whose hull 
weighs twenty-two pounds, honest weight, is a very fragile, short-lived 
affair. A paper shell of the same dimensions, and of the same weight, will 
last as long, and do as much work, as a wooden one whose hull turns the 
beam at thirty pounds. 

"An instance of their remarkable strength is shown in the following case. 
In the summer of 1870, a single shell, while being rowed at full speed, 
with the current, on one of our principal rivers, was run into to the 
stone abutment of a bridge. The bow struck squarely on to obstacle, and 
such was the momentum of the mass that the oarsman was thrown directly 
through the flaring bow of the cockpit into the river. Witnesses of the 
accident who were familiar with wooden shells declared that the boat was 
ruined; but, after a careful examination, only the bow-tip was found to be 
twisted in a spiral form, and the washboard broken at the point by the 
oarsman as he passed between the sides. Two dollars covered the cost of 
repair. Had it been a wooden shell the shock would have crushed its stem 
and splintered the skin from the bow to the waist." 

Old and cautious seamen tried to dissuade me from contracting with the 
Messrs. Waters for the building of a stout paper canoe for my journey. 
Harvard College had not adopted this "newfangled notion" at that time, and 
Cornell had only begun to think of attempting to out-row other colleges at 
Saratoga by using paper boats. The Centennial year of the independence of 
the United States, 1876, settled all doubts as to the value of the result 
of the years of toil of the inventors of the paper boat. During the same 
year the incendiary completed his revengeful work by burning the paper-
boat manufactory at Troy. The loss was a heavy one; but a few weeks later 
these unflinching men were able to record the following victories achieved 
that single season by their boats. 

The races won by the paper boats were: 

The Intercollegiate Championship:
    Freshmen and University.

The International Championship at Saratoga:
    Singles, Doubles, and Fours.

The National Championship, N. A. of A. 0.:
    Singles, Doubles, and Fours.

The World's Championship at Centennial Exhibition:
    Singles, Doubles, and Fours.

The Professional Championship of the United States.

And every other important race of the season, besides receiving the 
highest honors at the Centennial Exhibition. The right to make boats of 
paper in Canada and in the United States is exclusively held by the 
Messrs. Waters, and they are the only manufacturers of paper boats in the 
world. 
 
It is not many years since Mr. McGregor, of London, built the little Rob 
Roy canoe, and in it made the tour of interesting European waters. His 
example was followed by an army of tourists, and it is now a common thing 
to meet canoe voyagers in miniature flotillas upon the watercourses of our 
own and foreign lands. Rev. Baden Powell, also an Englishman, perfected 
the model of the Nautilus type of canoe, which possesses a great deal of 
sheer with fullness of bow, and is therefore a better boat for rough water 
than the Rob Roy. The New York Canoe Club have adopted the Nautilus for 
their model. We still need a distinctive American type for our waters, 
more like the best Indian canoe than the European models here presented. 
These modern yacht-like canoes are really improved kyaks, and in their 
construction we are much indebted to the experience of the inhabitants of 
the Arctic Circle. Very few of the so-called Rob Roy canoes, built in the 
United States, resemble the original perfected boat of Mr. McGregor -- the 
father of modern canoe travelling. The illustrations given of English 
canoes are from imported models, and are perfect of their type. 



CHAPTER VI. 
TROY TO PHILADELPHIA. 
PAPER CANOE MARIA THERESA. -- THE START. -- THE DESCENT OF THE HUDSON 
RIVER. -- CROSSING THE UPPER BAY OF NEW YORK. -- PASSAGE OF THE KILLS. -- 
RARITAN RIVER -- THE CANAL ROUTE FROM NEW BRUNSWICK TO THE DELAWARE 
RIVER. -- FROM BORDENTOWN TO PHILADELPHIA. 

My canoe of the English "Nautilus" type was completed by the middle of 
October; and on the cold, drizzly morning of the 21st of the same month I 
embarked in my little fifty-eight pound craft from the landing of the 
paper-boat manufactory on the river Hudson, two miles above Troy. Mr. 
George A. Waters put his own canoe into the water, and proposed to escort 
me a few miles down the river. If I had any misgivings as to the stability 
of my paper canoe upon entering her for the first time, they were quickly 
dispelled as I passed the stately Club-house of the Laureates, which 
contained nearly forty shells, all of paper. The dimensions of the Maria 
Theresa were: length, fourteen feet; beam, twenty-eight inches; depth, 
amidships, nine inches; height of bow from horizontal line, twenty-three 
inches; height of stern, twenty inches. The canoe was one-eighth of an 
inch in thickness, and weighed fifty-eight pounds. She was fitted with a 
pair of steel outriggers, which could be easily unshipped and stowed away. 
The oars were of spruce, seven feet eight inches long, and weighed three 
pounds and a quarter each. The double paddle, which was seven feet six 
inches in length, weighed two pounds and a half. The mast and sail -- 
which are of no service on such a miniature vessel, and were soon 
discarded -- weighed six pounds. When I took on board at Philadelphia the 
canvas deck-cover and the rubber strap which secured it in position, and 
the outfit, -- the cushion, sponge, provision-basket, and a fifteen-pound 
case of charts, -- I found that, with my own weight included (one hundred 
and thirty pounds), the boat and her cargo, all told, provisioned for a 
long cruise, fell considerably short of the weight of three Saratoga 
trunks containing a very modest wardrobe for a lady's four weeks' visit at 
a fashionable watering-place. 

The rain ceased, the mists ascended, and the sunlight broke upon us as we 
swiftly descended upon the current of the Hudson to Albany. The city was 
reached in an hour and a half. Mr. Waters, pointing his canoe northward, 
wished me bon voyage, and returned to the scene of the triumphs of his 
patient labors, while I settled down to a steady row southward. At Albany, 
the capital of the state, which is said to be one hundred and fifty miles 
distant from New York city, there is a tidal rise and fall of one foot. A 
feeling of buoyancy and independence came over me as I glided on the 
current of this noble stream, with the consciousness that I now possessed 
the right boat for my enterprise. It had been a dream of my youth to 
become acquainted with the charms of this most romantic river of the 
American continent. Its sources are in the clouds of the Adirondacks, 
among the cold peaks of the northern wilderness; its ending may be said to 
be in the briny waters of the Atlantic, for its channel-way has been 
sounded outside of the sandy beaches of New York harbor in the bosom of 
the restless ocean. The highest types of civilized life are nurtured upon 
its banks. Noble edifices, which contain and preserve the works of genius 
and of mechanical art, rear their proud roofs from among these hills on 
the lofty sites of the picturesque Hudson. The wealth of the great city at 
its mouth, the metropolis of the young nation, has been lavished upon the 
soil of the river's borders to make it even more beautiful and more 
fruitful. What river in America, along the same length of coast-lines as 
from Troy to New York (one hundred and fifty-six miles), can rival in 
natural beauty and artificial applications of wealth the lovely Hudson? 
"The Hudson River," says its genial historian, Mr. Lossing, "from its 
birth among the mountains to its marriage with the ocean, measures a 
distance of full three hundred miles." 

Captain John Smith's friend, the Englishman Henry Hudson, while in the 
employ of the Dutch East India Company, in his vessel of ninety tons, the 
Half-Moon, being in search of a northwest passage south of Virginia, cast 
anchor outside of Sandy Hook, September 3, 1609, and on the 11th passed up 
through the Narrows into the present bay of New York. Under the firm 
conviction that he was on his way to the long-sought Cathay, a day later 
he entered the Hudson River, where now stands the proud metropolis of 
America. As the Half-Moon ascended the river the water lost its saltness, 
and by the time they were anchored where the city of Albany now stands all 
hopes of Cathay faded from the heart of the mariner. Englishmen called 
this river in honor of its discoverer, but the Dutch gave it the name of 
North River, the Delaware had been discovered and named South River. Thus, 
while in 1609 Samuel Champlain was exploring the lake which bears his 
name, Hudson was ascending his river upon the southern water-shed. The 
historian tells us that these bold explorers penetrated the wilderness, 
one from the north and the other from the south, to within one hundred 
miles of each other. 

The same historian (Dr. Lossing) says: "The most remote source of the 
extreme western branch of our noble river is Hendricks Spring, so named in 
honor of Hendricks Hudson. We found Hendricks Spring in the edge of a 
swamp, cold, shallow, about five feet in diameter, shaded by trees, 
shrubbery, and vines, and fringed with the delicate brake and fern. Its 
waters, rising within half a mile of Long Lake, and upon the same summit-
level, flow southward to the Atlantic more than three hundred miles; while 
those of the latter flow to the St. Lawrence, and reach the same Atlantic 
a thousand miles away to the far northeast." 

Since Dr. Lossing visited the western head of the Hudson River, the true 
and highest source of the stream has probably been settled by a gentleman 
possessing scientific acquirements and inflexible purpose. On the plateau 
south of Mount Marcy, State-Surveyor Colvin found the little Lake Tear-of-
the-Clouds to be the loftiest sheet of water in the state, -- four 
thousand three hundred and twenty-six feet above the sea, -- and proved it 
to be the lake-head of the great river Hudson. A second little pond in a 
marsh on a high plateau, at the foot of Mount Redfield, was also 
discovered, -- "margined and embanked with luxuriant and deep sphagnous 
moss," -- which was named by the party Moss Lake. It was found to flow 
into the Hudson. A beautiful little bivalve shell, three-sixteenths of an 
inch in diameter, of an undescribed species, was found in the pellucid 
water, and thus a new shell was handed over to conchology, and a new river 
source to geography, in the same hour. This pool is four thousand three 
hundred and twelve feet above tide-water, and only a few feet lower than 
its sister, Tear-of-the-Clouds -- the highest source of the Hudson. 

Should the state of New York adopt Mr. Colvin's suggestion, to reserve six 
hundred square miles of the Adirondack region for a public park, the pool 
Tear-of-the-Clouds will be within the reservation. The waters of these 
baby fountains are swollen by contributions from the streams, ponds, and 
lakes of the Adirondack wilderness, until along the banks of Fishing 
Brook, a tributary of the Hudson, the water is utilized at the first saw-
mill. A few miles lower down the forests are vexed by the axe of the 
lumbermen, and logs are floated down the river one hundred miles to Glens 
Falls, where the State Dam and Great Boom are located. Half a million logs 
have been gathered there in a single spring. 

It was upon the Hudson that the first successful steamboat, built by 
Robert Fulton, made its voyage to Albany, the engine having been built by 
Watt & Bolton, in England. 

From Mr. Lossing we obtain the following. 

"The Clermont was one hundred feet long, twelve feet wide, and seven feet 
deep. The following advertisement appeared in the Albany Gazette on the 
1st of September, 1807: 

"The North River steamboat will leave Paulus Hook (Jersey City) on
Friday, the 4th of September, at 9 in the morning, and arrive at
Albany on Saturday at 9 in the afternoon. Provisions, good berths,
and accommodations are provided. The charge to each passenger is as 
follows:

To Newburgh, .  .  .  .  3 Dollars .  .  Time, 14 hours.
"  Poughkeepsie,   .  .  4    " .  .  .  .  "  17   "
"  Esopus,   .  .  .  .  5    " .  .  .  .  "  20   "
"  Hudson,   .  .  .  .  5½   " .  .  .  .  "  30   "
"  Albany,   .  .  .  .  7    " .  .  .  .  "  36   ""

The trip, which was made against a strong head wind, was entirely 
successful. The large steamers can now make the trip from New York to 
Albany in about ten hours. 

As I pulled easily along the banks of the river, my eyes feasted upon the 
gorgeous coloring of the autumnal foliage, which formed a scene of beauty 
never to be forgotten. The rapid absorption of oxygen by the leaves in the 
fall months produces, in northern America, these vivid tints which give to 
the country the appearance of a land covered with a varied and brilliant 
garment, "a coat of many colors." A soft hazy light pervaded the 
atmosphere, while at the same time the October air was gently exhilarating 
to the nervous system. At six o'clock P. M. the canoe arrived at Hudson 
City, which is on the east bank of the river, and I completed a row of 
thirty-eight statute miles, according to local authority; but in reality 
forty-nine miles by the correct charts of the United States Coast Survey. 
After storing the Maria Theresa in a shed, I repaired to a dismal hotel 
for the night. 

At seven o'clock the next morning the river was mantled in a dense fog, 
but I pushed off and guided myself by the sounds of the running trains on 
the Hudson River Railroad. This corporation does such an immense amount of 
freighting that, if their freight trains were connected, a continuous line 
of eighty miles would be constructed, of which sixteen miles are always in 
transit day and night. Steamboats and tugs with canal-boats in tow were 
groping about the river in the misty darkness, blowing whistles every few 
minutes to let people know that the pilot was not sleeping at the wheel. 
There was a grand clearing up at noon; and as the sun broke through the 
mist, the beautiful shores came into view like a vivid flame of scarlet, 
yellow, brown, and green. It was the death-song of summer, and her dying 
notes the tinted leaves, each one giving to the wind a sad strain as it 
softly dropped to the earth, or was quickly hurled into space. 

A few miles south of Hudson City, on the west bank, the Catskill stream 
enters the river. From this point the traveller may penetrate the 
picturesque country of the Appalachian range, where its wild elevations 
were called Onti Ora, or "mountains of the sky," by the aborigines. 

Roundout, on the right bank of the Hudson, is the terminus of the Delaware 
and Hudson Canal, which connects it with Port Jervis on the Delaware, a 
distance of fifty-four miles. This town, the outlet of the coal regions, I 
passed after meridian. As I left Hudson on the first of the flood-tide, I 
had to combat it for several hours; but I easily reached Hyde Park Landing 
(which is on the left bank of the stream and, by local authority, thirty-
five miles from Hudson City) at five o'clock P. M. The wharf-house 
sheltered the canoe, and a hotel in the village, half a mile distant on 
the high plains, its owner. I was upon the river by seven o'clock the next 
morning. The day was varied by strong gusts of wind succeeded by calms. 
Six miles south of Hyde Park is the beautiful city of Poughkeepsie with 
its eighteen thousand inhabitants, and the celebrated Vassar Female 
College. Eight miles down the river, and on the same side, is a small 
village called New Hamburg. The rocky promontory at the foot of which the 
town is built is covered with the finest arbor vitae forest probably in 
existence. Six miles below, on west bank, is the important city of 
Newburg, one of the termini of the New York and Erie Railroad. Four miles 
below, the river narrows and presents a grand view of the north entrance 
of the Highlands, with the Storm King Mountain rising fully one thousand 
five hundred feet above the tide. The early Dutch navigators gave to this 
peak the name of Boter-burg (Butter-Hill), but it was rechristened Storm 
King by the author N. P. Willis, whose late residence, Idlewild, commands 
a fine view of Newburg Bay. 

When past the Storm King, the Crow-Nest and the almost perpendicular front 
of Kidd's Plug Cliff tower aloft, and mark the spot where Kidd (as usual) 
was supposed to have buried a portion of that immense sum of money with 
which popular belief invests hundreds of localities along the watercourses 
of the continent. Now the Narrows above West Point were entered and the 
current against a head-wind made the passage unusually exciting. The paper 
canoe danced over the boiling expanse of water, and neared the west shore 
about a mile above the United States Military Academy, when a shell, from 
a gun on the grounds of that institution burst in the water within a few 
feet of the boat. I now observed a target set upon a little flat at the 
foot of a gravelly hill close to the beach. As a second, and finally a 
third shell exploded near me, I rowed into the rough water, much disgusted 
with cadet-practice and military etiquette. After dark the canoe was 
landed on the deck of a schooner which was discharging slag or cinder at 
Fort Montgomery Landing. I scrambled up the hill to the only shelter that 
could be found, a small country store owned by a Captain Conk who kept 
entertainment for the traveller. Rough fellows and old crones came in to 
talk about the spooks that had been seen in the neighboring hills. It was 
veritable "Sleepy Hollow" talk. The physician of the place, they said, had 
been "skert clean off a bridge the other night." 

Embarking the following morning from this weird and hilly country, that 
prominent natural feature, Anthony's Nose, which was located on the 
opposite shore, strongly appealed to my imagination and somewhat excited 
my mirth. One needs a powerful imagination, I thought, to live in these 
regions where the native element, the hill-folk, dwell so fondly and 
earnestly upon the ghostly and mysterious. Three miles down the river, 
Dunderberg, "the thundering mountain," on the west bank, with the town of 
Peekskill on the opposite shore, was passed, and I entered Haverstraw Bay, 
the widest part of the river. "Here," says the historian, "the fresh and 
salt water usually contend, most equally, for the mastery; and here the 
porpoise is often seen in large numbers sporting in the summer sun. Here 
in the spring vast numbers of shad are caught while on their way to 
spawning-beds in freshwater coves." Haverstraw Bay was crossed, and 
Tarrytown passed, when I came to the picturesque little cottage of a great 
man now gone from among us. Many pleasant memories of his tales rose in my 
mind as I looked upon Sunnyside, the home of Washington Irving, nestled in 
the grove of living green, its white stuccoed walls glistening in the 
bright sunlight, and its background of grand villas looming up on every 
side. At Irvington Landing, a little further down the river, I went ashore 
to pass Sunday with friends; and on the Monday following, in a dense fog, 
proceeded on my route to New York. 

Below Irvington the far-famed "Palisades," bold-faced precipices of trap-
rock, offer their grandest appearance on the west side of the Hudson. 
These singular bluffs, near Hoboken, present a perpendicular front of 
three hundred or four hundred feet in height. Piles of broken rock rest 
against their base: the contribution of the cliffs above from the effects 
of frost and sun. 

While approaching the great city of New York, strong squalls of wind, 
blowing against the ebb-tide, sent swashy waves into my open canoe, the 
sides of which, amidships, were only five or six inches above water; but 
the great buoyancy of the light craft and its very smooth exterior created 
but little friction in the water and made her very seaworthy, when 
carefully watched and handled, even without a deck of canvas or wood. 
While the canoe forged ahead through the troubled waters, and the breezes 
loaded with the saltness of the sea now near at hand struck my back, I 
confess that a longing to reach Philadelphia, where I could complete my 
outfit and increase the safety of my little craft, gave renewed vigor to 
my stroke as I exchanged the quiet atmosphere of the country for the smoke 
and noise of the city. Every instinct was now challenged, and every muscle 
brought into action, as I dodged tug-boats, steamers, yachts, and vessels, 
while running the thoroughfare along the crowded wharves between New York 
on one side and Jersey City on the other. I found the slips between the 
piers most excellent ports of refuge at times, when the ferry-boats, 
following each other in quick succession, made the river with its angry 
tide boil like a vortex. The task soon ended, and I left the Hudson at 
Castle Garden and entered the upper bay of New York harbor. As it was 
dark, I would gladly have gone ashore for the night, but a great city 
offers no inducement for a canoeist to land as a stranger at its wharves. 

A much more pleasant reception awaited me down on Staten Island, a 
gentleman having notified me by mail that he would welcome the canoe and 
its owner. The ebb had ceased, and the incoming tide was being already 
felt close in shore; so with tide and wind against me, and the darkness of 
night settling down gloomily upon the wide bay, I pulled a strong oar for 
five miles to the entrance of Kill Van Kull Strait, which separates Staten 
Island from New Jersey and connects the upper bay with Raritan Bay. 

The bright beams from the light-house on Robbin's Reef, which is one mile 
and a quarter off the entrance of the strait, guided me on my course. The 
head-sea, in little, splashy waves, began to fill my canoe. The water soon 
reached the foot-rest; but there was no time to stop to bale out the boat, 
for a friendly current was near, and if once reached, my little craft 
would enter smoother waters. The flood which poured into the mouth of Kill 
Van Kull soon caught my boat, and the head-tide was changed to a favorable 
current which carried me in its strong arms far into the salt-water 
strait, and I reached West New Brighton, along the high banks of which I 
found my haven of rest. Against the sky I traced the outlines of my land-
mark, three poplars, standing sentinel-like before the house of the 
gentleman who had so kindly offered me his hospitality. The canoe was 
emptied of its shifting liquid ballast and carefully sponged dry. My host 
and his son carried it into the main hall of the mansion and placed it 
upon the floor, where the entire household gathered, an admiring group. 
Proud, indeed, might my dainty craft have been of the appreciation of so 
lovely a company. her master fully appreciated the generous board of his 
kind host, and in present comfort soon forgot past trials and his wet pull 
across the upper bay of New York harbor. 

My work for the next day, October 27th, was the navigation of the 
interesting strait of the old Dutch settlers and the Raritan River, of New 
Jersey, as far as New Brunswick. The average width of Kill Van Kull is 
three-eighths of a mile. From its entrance, at Constable's Point, to the 
mouth of Newark Bay, which enters it on the Jersey side, it is three 
miles, and nearly two miles across the bay to Elizabethport. Bergen Point 
is on the east and Elizabethport on the west entrance of the bay, while on 
Staten Island, New Brighton, Factoryville, and North Shore, furnish homes 
for many New York business men. 

At Elizabethport the strait narrows to one eighth of a mile, and as the 
mouth of the Rahway is approached it widens. It now runs through marshes 
for most of the way, a distance of twelve miles to Raritan Bay, which is 
an arm of the lower bay of New York harbor. The strait, from Elizabethport 
to its mouth, is called Arthur Kill; the whole distance through the Kills, 
from Constable's Point to Raritan Bay, is about seventeen statute miles. 
At the mouth of Arthur Kill the Raritan River opens to the bay, and the 
city of Perth Amboy rests on the point of high land between the river and 
the strait. 

Roseville and Tottenville are on the Staten Island shores of Arthur Kill, 
the former six miles, the latter ten miles from Elizabethport. The tide 
runs swiftly through the Kills. Leaving Mr. Campbell's residence at nine 
A. M., with a tide in my favor as far as Newark Bay, I soon had the tide 
against me from the other Kill until I passed the Rahway River, when it 
commenced to ebb towards Raritan Bay. The marshy shores of the Kills were 
submerged in places by the high tide, but their monotony was relieved by 
the farms upon the hills back of the flats. 

At one o'clock my canoe rounded the heights upon which Perth Amboy is 
perched, with its snug cottages, the homes of many oystermen whose fleet 
of boats was anchored in front of the town. Curious yard-like pens 
constructed of poles rose out of the water, in which boats could find 
shelter from the rough sea. 

The entrance to the Raritan River is wide, and above its mouth it is 
crossed by a long railroad bridge. The pull up the crooked river (sixteen 
miles) against a strong ebb-tide, through extensive reedy marshes, was 
uninteresting. I came upon the entrance of the canal which connects the 
rivers Raritan and Delaware after six o'clock P. M., which at this season 
of the year was after dark. Hiding the canoe in a secure place I went to 
visit an old friend, Professor George Cook, of the New Jersey State 
Geological Survey, who resides at New Brunswick. In the morning the 
professor kindly assisted me, and we climbed the high bank of the canal 
with the canoe upon our shoulders, putting it into the water below the 
first two locks. I now commenced an unexciting row of forty-two miles to 
Bordentown, on the Delaware, where this artificial watercourse ends. 

This canal is much travelled by steam tugs towing schooners of two hundred 
tons, and by barges and canal-boats of all sizes drawing not above seven 
feet and a half of water. The boats are drawn through the locks by 
stationary steam-engines, the use of which is discontinued when the 
business becomes slack; then the boatmen use their mules for the same 
purpose. To tow an average-sized canal-boat, loaded, requires four mules, 
while an empty one is easily drawn by two. It proved most expeditious as 
well as convenient not to trouble the lock-master to open the gates, but 
to secure his assistance in carrying the canoe along the tow-path to the 
end of the lock, which service occupied less than five minutes. In this 
way the canoe was carried around seven locks the first day, and when dusk 
approached she was sheltered beside a paper shell in the boat-house of 
Princeton College Club, which is located on the banks of the canal about 
one mile and a half from the city of Princeton. 

In this narrow watercourse these indefatigable collegians, under great 
disadvantages, drill their crews for the annual intercollegiate struggle 
for championship. One Noah Reed provided entertainment for man and beast 
at his country inn half a mile from the boat-house, and thither I repaired 
for the night. 

This day's row of twenty-six miles and a half had been through a hilly 
country, abounding in rich farm lands which were well cultivated. The next 
morning an officer of the Princeton Bank awaited my coming on the banks of 
the sluggish canal. He had taken an early walk from the town to see the 
canoe. At Baker's Basin the bridge-tender, a one-legged man, pressed me to 
tarry till he could summon the Methodist minister, who had charged him to 
notify him of the approach of a paper canoe. 

Through all my boat journeys I have remarked that professional men take 
more interest in canoe journeys than professional oarsmen; and nearly all 
the canoeists of my acquaintance are ministers of the gospel. It is an 
innocent way of obtaining relaxation; and opportunities thus offered the 
weary clergyman of studying nature in her ever-changing but always restful 
moods, must indeed be grateful after being for months in daily contact 
with the world, the flesh, and the devil. The tendency of the present age 
to liberal ideas permits clergymen in large towns and cities to drive fast 
horses, and spend an hour of each day at a harmless game of billiards, 
without giving rise to remarks from his own congregation, but let the 
overworked rector of a country village seek in his friendly canoe that 
relief which nature offers to the tired brain, let him go into the 
wilderness and live close to his Creator by studying his works, and a 
whole community vex him on his return with "the appearance of the thing." 
These self-constituted critics, who are generally ignorant of the laws 
which God has made to secure health and give contentment to his creatures, 
would poison the sick man's body with drugs and nostrums when he might 
have the delightful and generally successful services of Dr. Camp Cure 
without the after dose of a bill. These hardworked and miserably paid 
country clergymen, who are rarely, nowadays, treated as the head of the 
congregation or the shepherd of the flock they are supposed to lead, but 
rather as victims of the whims of influential members of the church, tell 
me that to own a canoe is indeed a cross, and that if they spend a 
vacation in the grand old forests of the Adirondacks, the brethren are 
sorely exercised over the time wasted in such unusual and unministerial 
conduct. 

Everywhere along the route the peculiar character of the paper canoe 
attracted many remarks from the bystanders. The first impression given was 
that I had engaged in this rowing enterprise under the stimulus of a bet; 
and when the curious were informed that it was a voyage of study, the next 
question was "How much are you going to make out of it?" Upon learning 
that there was neither a bet nor money in it, a shade of disappointment 
and incredulity rested upon the features of the bystanders, and the 
canoeist was often rated as a "blockhead" for risking his life without 
being paid for it. 

At Trenton the canal passes through the city and here it was necessary to 
carry the boat around two locks. At noon the canoe ended her voyage of 
forty-two miles by reaching the last lock, on the Delaware River, at 
Bordentown, New Jersey, where friendly arms received the Maria Theresa and 
placed her on the trestles which had supported her sister craft, the 
Mayeta, in the shop of the builder, Mr. J. S. Lamson, situated under the 
high cliffs along the crests of which an ex-king of Spain, in times gone 
by, was wont to walk and sadly ponder on his exile from la belle France. 

The Rev. John H. Barkeley, proprietor as well as principal of the 
Bordentown Female Seminary, took me to his ancient mansion, where Thomas 
Paine, of old Revolutionary war times, had lodged. Not the least 
attraction in the home of my friend was the group of fifty young ladies, 
who were kind enough to gather upon a high bluff when I left the town, and 
wave graceful farewell to the paper canoe as she entered the tidal current 
of the river Delaware en route for the Quaker city. 

During my short stay in Bordentown Mr. Isaac Gabel kindly acted as my 
guide and we explored the Bonaparte Park, which is on the outskirts of the 
town. The grounds are beautifully laid out. Some of the old houses of the 
ex-king's friends and attendants still remain in a fair state of 
preservation. The elegant residence of Joseph Bonaparte, or the Count de 
Surveilliers, which was always open to American visitors of all classes, 
was torn down by Mr. Henry Beckett, an Englishman in the diplomatic 
service of the British government, who purchased this property some years 
after the Count returned to Europe, and erected a more elaborate mansion 
near the old site. The old citizens of Bordentown hold in grateful 
remembrance the favors showered upon them by Joseph Bonaparte and his 
family, who seem to have lived a democratic life in the grand old park. 
The Count returned to France in 1838, and never visited the United States 
again. New Jersey had welcomed the exiled monarch, and had given him 
certain legal privileges in property rights which New York had refused 
him; so he settled upon the lovely shores of the fair Delaware, and 
lavished his wealth upon the people of the state that had so kindly 
received him. The citizens of neighboring states becoming somewhat jealous 
of the good luck that had befallen New Jersey in her capture of the 
Spanish king, applied to the state the cognomen of "New Spain," and called 
the inhabitants thereof "Spaniards." 

The Delaware River, the Makeriskitton of the savage, upon whose noble 
waters my paper canoe was now to carry me southward, has its sources in 
the western declivity of the Catskill Mountains, in the state of New York. 
It is fed by two tributary streams, the Oquago (or Coquago) and the 
Popacton, which unite their waters at the boundary line of Pennsylvania, 
at the northeast end of the state, from which it flows southward seventy 
miles, separating the Empire and Keystone states. When near Port Jervis, 
which town is connected with Rondout on the Hudson River, by the Hudson 
and Delaware Canal, the Delaware turns sharply to the southwest, and 
becomes the boundary line between the states of New Jersey and 
Pennsylvania. Below Easton the river again takes a Southeasterly course, 
and flowing past Trenton, Bristol, Bordentown, Burlington, Philadelphia, 
Camden, Newcastle, and Delaware City, empties its waters into Delaware Bay 
about forty miles below Philadelphia. 

This river has about the same length as the Hudson -- three hundred miles. 
The tide reaches one hundred and thirty-two miles from the sea at Cape May 
and Cape Henlopen. Philadelphia is the head of navigation for vessels of 
the heaviest tonnage; Trenton for light-draught steamboats. At Bordentown 
the river is less than half a mile wide; at Philadelphia it is three-
fourths of a mile in width; while at Delaware City it widens to two miles 
and a half. Delaware Bay is twenty-six miles across in the widest part, 
which is some miles within the entrance of the Capes. 

October 31st was cool and gusty. The river route to Philadelphia is twenty-
nine statute miles. The passage was made against a strong head-wind, with 
swashy waves, which made me again regret that I did not have my canoe-
decking made at Troy, instead of at Philadelphia. The highly cultivated 
farms and beautiful country-seats along both the Pennsylvania and New 
Jersey sides of the river spoke highly of the rich character of the soil 
and the thrift of the inhabitants. These river counties of two states may 
be called a land of plenty, blessed with bountiful harvests. 

Quaker industry and wise economy in managing the agricultural affairs of 
this section in the early epochs of our country's settlement have borne 
good fruit. All praise to the memory of William Penn of Pennsylvania and 
his worthy descendants. The old towns of Bristol on the right, and 
Burlington on the left bank, embowered in vernal shades, have a most 
comfortable and home-like appearance. 

At five o'clock P. M. I arrived at the city pier opposite the warehouse of 
Messrs. C. P. Knight & Brother, No. 114 South Delaware Avenue, where, 
after a struggle with wind and wave for eight hours, the canoe was landed 
and deposited with the above firm, the gentlemen of which kindly offered 
to care for it while I tarried in the "City of Brotherly Love." 

Among the many interesting spots hallowed by memories of the past in which 
Philadelphia abounds, and which are rarely sought out by visitors, two 
especially claim the attention of the naturalist. One is the old home of 
William Bartram, on the banks of the Schuylkill at Grey's Ferry; the 
other, the grave of Alexander Wilson, friends and co-laborers in nature's 
extended field; -- the first a botanist, the second the father of American 
ornithology. 

William Bartram, son of the John Bartram who was the founder of the 
Botanic Garden on the west bank of the Schuylkill, was born at that 
interesting spot in 1739. All botanists are familiar with the results of 
his patient labors and his pioneer travels in those early days, through 
the wilderness of what now constitutes the southeastern states. One who 
visited him at his home says: "Arrived at the botanist's garden, we 
approached an old man who, with a rake in his hand, was breaking the clods 
of earth in a tulip-bed. His hat was old, and flapped over his Etee; his 
coarse shirt was seen near his neck, as he wore no cravat nor kerchief; 
his waistcoat and breeches were both of leather, and his shoes were tied 
with leather strings. We approached and accosted him. He ceased his work, 
and entered into conversation with the ease and politeness of nature's 
nobleman. His countenance was expressive of benignity and happiness. This 
was the botanist, traveller and philosopher we had come to see." 

William Bartram gave important assistance and encouragement to the 
friendless Scotch pedagogue, Alexander Wilson, while the latter was 
preparing his American Ornithology for the press. This industrious and 
peaceable botanist died within the walls of his dearly-loved home a few 
minutes after he had penned a description of a plant. He died in 1823, in 
the eighty-fifth year of his age. The old house of John and William 
Bartram remains nearly the same as when the last Bartram died, but the 
grounds have been occupied and improved by the present proprietor, whose 
fine mansion is near the old residence of the two botanists. 

Without ample funds to enable him to carry out his bold design, Alexander 
Wilson labored and suffered in body and mind for several years, until his 
patient and persistent efforts achieved the success they so richly 
merited. All but the last volume of his American Ornithology were 
completed when the overworked naturalist died. 

The old Swedes' Church is the most ancient religious edifice in 
Philadelphia, and is located near the wharves in the vicinity of Christian 
and Swanson streets, in the old district of Southwark. The Swedes had 
settlements on the Delaware before Penn visited America. They built a 
wooden edifice for worship in 1677, on the spot where the brick "Swedes' 
Church" now stands, and which was erected in 1700. Threading narrow 
streets, with the stenographic reporter of the courts, Mr. R. A. West, for 
my guide, we came into a quiet locality where the ancient landmark reared 
its steeple, like the finger of faith pointing heavenward. Few indeed must 
be the fashionable Christians who worship under its unpretentious roof, 
but there is an air of antiquity surrounding it which interests every 
visitor who enters its venerable doorway. 

The church-yard is very contracted in area yet there is room for trees to 
grow within its sacred precincts, and birds sometimes rest there while 
pursuing their flight from the Schuylkill to the Delaware. Among the 
crowded graves is a square brick structure, covered with an horizontal 
slab of white marble, upon which I read: 

                  "THIS MONUMENT COVERS THE REMAINS OF

                           ALEXANDER WILSON,

                   AUTHOR OF THE AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY.

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

            EMIGRATED TO THE UNITED STATES IN THE YEAR 1794;

               AND DIED IN PHILADELPHIA, OF THE DYSENTERY,

                    ON THE 23 AUGUST, 1813, AGED 47.

                     Ingenio stat sine morte decus."

Philadelphia has been called the, "city of homes," and well does she merit 
that comfortably sounding title, for it is not a misnomer. Unlike some 
other large American cities, the artisan and laborer can here own a home 
by becoming a member of a building association and paying the moderate 
periodical dues. Miles upon miles of these cosy little houses, of five or 
six rooms each, may be found, the inmates of which are a good and useful 
class of citizens, adding strength to the city's discipline and 
government. 

The grand park of three thousand acres, one of, if not the largest in the 
world, is near at hand, where the poor as well as the rich can resort at 
pleasure. I took leave of the beautiful and well laid-out city with a pang 
of regret not usual with canoeists, who find it best for their comfort and 
peace of mind to keep with their dainty crafts away from the heterogeneous 
and not over-civil population which gathers along the water-fronts of a 
port. 



CHAPTER VII. 
PHILADELPHIA TO CAPE HENLOPEN. 
DESCENT OF DELAWARE RIVER. -- MY FIRST CAMP. -- BOMBAY HOOK. -- MURDERKILL 
CREEK. -- A STORM IN DELAWARE BAY. -- CAPSIZING OF THE CANOE. -- A SWIM 
FOR LIFE. -- THE PERSIMMON GROVE. -- WILLOW GROVE INN. -- THE LIGHTS OF 
CAPES MAY AND HENLOPEN. 

Monday, November 9, was a cold, wet day. Mr. Knight and the old, 
enthusiastic gunsmith-naturalist of the city, Mr. John Krider, assisted me 
to embark in my now decked, provisioned, and loaded canoe. The stock of 
condensed food would easily last me a month, while the blankets and other 
parts of the outfit were good for the hard usage of four or five months. 
My friends shouted adieu as the little craft shot out from the pier and 
rapidly descended the river with the strong ebb-tide which for two hours 
was in her favor. The anchorage of the iron Monitor fleet at League Island 
was soon passed, and the great city sank into the gloom of its smoke and 
the clouds of rainy mist which enveloped it. 

This pull was an exceedingly dreary one. The storms of winter were at 
hand, and even along the watercourses between Philadelphia and Norfolk, 
Virginia, thin ice would soon be forming in the shallow coves and creeks. 
It would be necessary to exert all my energies to get south of Hatteras, 
which is located on the North Carolina coast in a region of storms and 
local disturbances. The canoe, though heavily laden, behaved well. I now 
enjoyed the advantages resulting from the possession of the new canvas 
deck-cover, which, being fastened by buttons along each gunwale of the 
canoe, securely covered the boat, so that the occasional swash sent aboard 
by wicked tug-boats and large schooners did not annoy me or wet my 
precious cargo. 

By two o'clock P. M. the rain and wind caused me to seek shelter at Mr. J. 
C. Beach's cottage, at Markus Hook, some twenty miles below Philadelphia, 
and on the same side of the river. While Mr. Beach was varnishing the 
little craft, crowds of people came to feel of the canoe, giving it the 
usual punching with their finger-nails, "to see if it were truly paper." A 
young Methodist minister with his pretty wife came also to satisfy their 
curiosity on the paper question, but the dominie offered me not a word of 
encouragement in my undertaking. He shook his head and whispered to his 
wife: "A wild, wild enterprise indeed." Markus Hook derived its name from 
Markee, an Indian chief, who sold it to the civilized white man for four 
barrels of whiskey. 

The next morning, in a dense fog, I followed the shores of the river, 
crossing the Pennsylvania and Delaware boundary line half a mile below the 
"Hook;" and entered Delaware, the little state of three counties. Thirty-
five miles below, the water becomes salt. Reaching New Castle, which 
contained half its present number of inhabitants before Philadelphia was 
founded, I pulled across to the New Jersey side of the river and skirted 
the marshy shore past the little Pea Patch Island, upon which rises in 
sullen dreariness Fort Delaware. West of the Island is Delaware City, 
where the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal, fourteen miles in length, has one 
of its termini, the other being on a river which empties into Chesapeake 
Bay. Philadelphia and Baltimore steamboat lines utilize this canal in the 
passage of their boats from one city to the other. 

After crossing Salem Cove, and passing its southern point, Elsinborough, 
five miles and a half below Fort Delaware, the inhospitable marshes became 
wide and desolate, warning me to secure a timely shelter for the night. 
Nearly two miles below Point Elsinborough the high reeds were divided by a 
little creek, into which I ran my canoe, for upon the muddy bank could be 
seen a deserted, doorless fish-cabin, into which I moved my blankets and 
provisions, after cutting with my pocket-knife an ample supply of dry 
reeds for a bed. Drift-wood, which a friendly tide had deposited around 
the shanty, furnished the material for my fire, which lighted up the 
dismal hovel most cheerfully. And thus I kept house in a comfortable 
manner till morning, being well satisfied with the progress I had made 
that day in traversing the shores of three states. The booming of the guns 
of wild-fowl shooters out upon the water roused me before dawn, and I had 
ample time before the sun arose to prepare breakfast from the remnant of 
canned ox-tail soup left over from last night's supper. 

I was now in Delaware Bay, which was assuming noble proportions. From my 
camp I crossed to the west shore below Reedy Island, and, filling my water-
bottles at a farm-house, kept upon that shore all day. The wind arose, 
stirring up a rough sea as I approached Bombay Hook, where the bay is 
eight miles wide. I tried to land upon the salt marshes, over the edges of 
which the long, low seas were breaking, but failed in several attempts. At 
last roller after roller, following in quick succession, carried the 
little craft on their crests to the land, and packed her in a thicket of 
high reeds. 

I quickly disembarked, believing it useless to attempt to go further that 
day. About an eighth of a mile from the water, rising out of the salt 
grass and reeds, was a little mound, covered by trees and bushes, into 
which I conveyed my cargo by the back-load, and then easily drew the light 
canoe over the level marsh to the camp. A bed of reeds was soon cut, into 
which the canoe was settled to prevent her from being strained by the 
occupant at night, for I was determined to test the strength of the boat 
as sleeping-quarters. Canoes built for one person are generally too light 
for such occupancy when out of water. The tall fringe of reeds which 
encircled the boat formed an excellent substitute for chamber walls, 
giving me all the starry blue heavens for a ceiling, and most effectually 
screening me from the strong wind which was blowing. As it was early when 
the boat was driven ashore I had time to wander down to the brook, which 
was a mile distant, and replenish my scanty stock of water. 

With the canvas deck-cover and rubber blanket to keep off the heavy dews, 
the first night passed in such contracted lodgings was endurable, if not 
wholly convenient and agreeable. The river mists were not dispelled the 
next day until nine o'clock, when I quitted my warm nest in the reeds and 
rowed down the bay, which seemed to grow broader as I advanced. The bay 
was still bordered by extensive marshes, with here and there the 
habitation of man located upon some slight elevation of the surface. 
Having rowed twenty-six miles, and being off the mouth of Murderkill 
Creek, a squall struck the canoe and forced it on to an oyster reef, upon 
the sharp shells of which she was rocked for several minutes by the 
shallow breakers. Fearing that the paper shell was badly cut, though it 
was still early in the afternoon, I ascended the creek of ominous name and 
associations to the landing of an inn kept by Jacob Lavey, where I 
expected to overhaul my injured craft. To my surprise and great relief of 
mind there were found only a few superficial scratches upon the horn-like 
shellacked surface of the paper shell. To apply shellac with a heated iron 
to the wounds made by the oyster-shells was the work of a few minutes, and 
my craft was as sound as ever. The gunner's resort, "Bower's Beach Hotel," 
furnished an excellent supper of oyster fritters, panfish, and fried pork-
scrapple. Mine host, before a blazing wood fire, told me of the origin of 
the name of Murderkill Creek. 

"In the early settlement of the country," began the innkeeper, "the white 
settlers did all they could to civilize the Indians, but the cussed 
savages wouldn't take to it kindly, but worried the life out of the new-
comers. At last a great landed proprietor, who held a big grant of land in 
these parts, thought he'd settle the troubles. So he planted a brass 
cannon near the creek, and invited all the Indians of the neighborhood to 
come and hear the white man's Great Spirit talk. The crafty man got the 
savages before the mouth of the cannon, and said, 'Now look into the hole 
there, for it is the mouth of the white man's Great Spirit, which will 
soon speak in tones of thunder.' The fellow then touched off the gun, and 
knocked half the devils into splinters. The others were so skeerd at the 
big voice they had heard that they were afraid to move, and were soon all 
killed by one charge after another from the cannon: so the creek has been 
called Murderkill ever since." 

I afterwards discovered that there were other places on the coast which 
had the same legend as the one told me by the innkeeper. Holders of small 
farms lived in the vicinity of this tavern, but the post-office was at 
Frederica, five miles inland. Embarking the next day, I felt sure of 
ending my cruise on Delaware Bay before night, as the quiet morning 
exhibited no signs of rising winds. The little pilot town of Lewes, near 
Cape Delaware, and behind the Breakwater, is a port of refuge for storm-
bound vessels. From this village I expected to make a portage of six miles 
to Love Creek, a tributary of Rehoboth Sound. The frosty nights were now 
exerting a sanitary influence over the malarial districts which I had 
entered, and the unacclimated canoeist of northern birth could safely 
pursue his journey, and sleep at night in the swamps along the fresh-water 
streams if protected from the dews by a rubber or canvas covering. My 
hopes of reaching the open sea that night were to be drowned, and in cold 
water too; for that day, which opened so calmly and with such smiling 
promises, was destined to prove a season of trial, and before its evening 
shadows closed around me, to witness a severe struggle for life in the 
cold waters of Delaware Bay. 

An hour after leaving Murderkill Creek the wind came from the north in 
strong squalls. My little boat taking the blasts on her quarter, kept 
herself free of the swashy seas hour after hour. I kept as close to the 
sandy beach of the great marshes as possible, so as to be near the land in 
case an accident should happen. Mispillion Creek and a light-house on the 
north of its mouth were passed, when the wind and seas struck my boat on 
the port beam, and continually crowded her ashore. The water breaking on 
the hard, sandy beach of the marshy coast made it too much of a risk to 
attempt a landing, as the canoe would be smothered in the swashy seas if 
her head way was checked for a moment. Amidships the canoe was only a few 
inches out of water, but her great sheer, full bow, and smoothness of 
hull, with watchful management, kept her from swamping. I had struggled 
along for fourteen miles since morning, and was fatigued by the strain 
consequent upon the continued manoeuvring of my boat through the rough 
waves. I reached a point on Slaughter Beach, where the bay has a width of 
nearly nineteen miles, when the tempest rose to such a pitch that the 
great raging seas threatened every moment to wash over my canoe, and to 
force me by their violence close into the beach. To my alarm, as the boat 
rose and fell upon the waves, the heads of sharp-pointed stakes appeared 
and disappeared in the broken waters. They were the stakes of fishermen to 
which they attach their nets in the season of trout-fishing. The danger of 
being impaled on one of these forced me off shore again. 

There was no undertow; the seas being driven over shoals were irregular 
and broken. At last my sea came. It rolled up without a crest, square and 
formidable. I could not calculate where it would break, but I pulled for 
life away from it towards the beach upon which the sea was breaking with 
deafening sound. It was only for a moment that I beheld the great brown 
wave, which bore with it the mud of the shoal, bearing down upon me; for 
the next, it broke astern, sweeping completely over the canoe from stern 
to stem, filling it through the opening of the canvas round my body. Then 
for a while the watery area was almost smooth, so completely had the great 
wave levelled it. The canoe being water-logged, settled below the surface, 
the high points of the ends occasionally emerging from the water. Other 
heavy seas followed the first, one of which striking me as high as my head 
and shoulders, turned both the canoe and canoeist upside-down. 

Kicking myself free of the canvas deck, I struck out from under the shell, 
and quickly rose to the surface. It was then that the words of an author 
of a European Canoe Manual came to my mind: "When you capsize, first right 
the canoe and get astride it over one end, keeping your legs in the water; 
when you have crawled to the well or cockpit, bale out the boat with your 
hat." Comforting as these instructions from an experienced canoe traveller 
seemed when reading them in my hermitage ashore, the present application 
of them (so important a principle in Captain Jack Bunsby's log of life) 
was in this emergency an impossibility; for my hat had disappeared with 
the seat-cushion and one iron outrigger, while the oars were floating to 
leeward with the canoe. 

The boat having turned keel up, her great sheer would have righted her had 
it not been for the cargo, which settled itself on the canvas deck-cloth, 
and ballasted the craft in that position. So smooth were her polished 
sides that it was impossible to hold on to her, for she rolled about like 
a slippery porpoise in a tideway. having tested and proved futile the kind 
suggestions of writers on marine disasters, and feeling very stiff in the 
icy water, I struck out in an almost exhausted condition for the shore. 
Now a new experience taught me an interesting lesson. The seas rolled over 
my head and shoulders in such rapid succession, that I found I could not 
get my head above water to breathe, while the sharp sand kept in 
suspension by the agitated water scratched my face, and filled my eyes, 
nostrils, and ears. While I felt this pressing down and burying tendency 
of the seas, as they broke upon my head and shoulders, I understood the 
reason why so many good swimmers are drowned in attempting to reach the 
shore from a wreck on a shoal, when the wind, though blowing heavily, is 
in the victim's favor. The land was not over an eighth of a mile away, and 
from it came the sullen roar of the breakers, pounding their heavy weight 
upon the sandy shingle. As its booming thunders or its angry, swashing 
sound increased, I knew I was rapidly nearing it, but, blinded by the 
boiling waters, I could see nothing. 

At such a moment do not stop to make vows as to how you will treat your 
neighbor in future if once safely landed, but strike out, fight as you 
never fought before, swallowing as little water as possible, and never 
relaxing an energy or yielding a hope. The water shoaled; my feet felt the 
bottom, and I stood up, but a roller laid me flat on my face. Up again and 
down again, swimming and crawling, I emerged from the sea, bearing, I 
fear, a closer resemblance to Jonah (being at last pitched on shore) than 
to Cabnel's Venus, who was borne gracefully upon the rosy crests of the 
sky-reflecting waves to the soft bed of sparkling foam awaiting her. 

Wearily dragging myself up the hard shingle, I stood and contemplated the 
little streams of water pouring from my woollen clothes. A new danger 
awaited me as the cold wind whistled down the barren beach and across the 
desolate marshes. I danced about to keep warm, and for a moment thought 
that my canoe voyage had come to an unfortunate termination. Then a 
buoyant feeling succeeded the moment's depression, and I felt that this 
was only the first of many trials which were necessary to prepare me for 
the successful completion of my undertaking. But where was the canoe, with 
its provisions that were to sustain me, and the charts which were to point 
out my way through the labyrinth of waters she was yet to traverse? She 
had drifted near the shore, but would not land. There was no time to 
consider the propriety of again entering the water. The struggle was a 
short though severe one, and I dragged my boat ashore. 

Everything was wet excepting what was most needed, -- a flannel suit, 
carefully rolled in a water-proof cloth. I knew that I must change my wet 
clothes for dry ones, or perish. This was no easy task to perform, with 
hands benumbed and limbs paralyzed with the cold. O shade of Benjamin 
Franklin, did not one of thy kinsmen, in his wide experience as a 
traveller, foresee this very disaster, and did he not, when I left the 
"City of Brotherly Love," force upon me an antidote, a sort of spiritual 
fire, which my New England temperance principles made me refuse to accept? 
"It is old, very old," he whispered, as he slipped the flask into my coat- 
pocket, "and it may save your life. Don't be foolish. I have kept it well 
bottled. It is a pure article, and cost sixteen dollars per gallon. I use 
it only for medicine." I found the flask; the water had not injured it. A 
small quantity was taken, when a most favorable change came over my entire 
system, mental as well as physical, and I was able to throw off one suit 
and put on another in the icy wind, that might, without the stimulant, 
have ended my voyage of life. 

I had doctored myself homoeopathically under the old practice. Filled with 
feelings of gratitude to the Great Giver of good, I reflected, as I 
carried my wet cargo into the marsh, upon the wonderful effects of my 
friend's medicine when taken only as medicine. Standing upon the cold 
beach and gazing into the sea, now lashed by the wild frenzy of the wind, 
I determined never again to do so mean a thing as to say a word against 
good brandy. 

Having relieved my conscience by this just resolve, I transported the 
whole of my wet but still precious cargo to a persimmon grove, on a spot 
of firm land that rose out of the marsh, where I made a convenient wind-
break by stretching rubber blankets between trees. On this knoll I built a 
fire, obtaining the matches to kindle it from a water-proof safe presented 
to me by Mr. Epes Sargent, of Boston, some years before, when I was 
ascending the St. Johns River, Florida. 

Before dusk, all things not spoiled by the water were dried and secreted 
in the tall sedge of the marshes. The elevation which had given me 
friendly shelter is known as "Hog Island." The few persimmon-trees that 
grew upon it furnished an ample lunch, for the frosts had mellowed the 
plum-like fruit, making it sweet and edible. The persimmon (Diospyrus 
Virginiana) is a small tree usually found in the middle and southern 
states. Coons and other animals feast upon its fruit. The deepening gloom 
warned me to seek comfortable quarters for the night. 

Two miles up the strand was an old gunners' inn, to which I bent my steps 
along Slaughter Beach, praying that one more day's effort would take me 
out of this bleak region of ominous names. A pleasant old gentleman, Mr. 
Charles Todd, kept the tavern, known as Willow Grove Hotel, more for 
amusement than for profit. I said nothing to him about the peculiar manner 
in which I had landed on Slaughter Beach; but to his inquiry as to where 
my boat was, and what kind of a boat it was to live in such a blow, I 
replied that I found it too wet and cold on the bay to remain there, and 
too rough to proceed to Cape Henlopen, and there being no alternative, I 
was obliged to land much against my inclination, and in doing so was 
drenched to the skin, but had managed to get dry before a fire in the 
marshes. So the kind old man piled small logs in the great kitchen 
fireplace, and told me tale upon tale of his life as a schoolmaster out 
west; of the death of his wife there, and of his desire to return, after 
long years of absence, to his native Delaware, where he could be 
comfortable, and have all the clams, oysters, fish, and bay truck 
generally that a man could wish for. 

"Now," he added, "I shall spend my last days here in peace." He furnished 
an excellent supper of weak-fish or sea trout (Otolithus regalio), fried 
oysters, sweet potatoes, &c. 

This locality offers a place of retirement for men of small means and 
limited ambition. The broad bay is a good sailing and fishing ground, 
while the great marshes are the resort of many birds. The light, warm soil 
responds generously to little cultivation. After a day of hunting and 
fishing, the new-comer can smoke his pipe in peace, to the music of 
crackling flames in the wide old fireplace. Here he may be comfortable, 
and spend his last days quietly vegetating, with no criticisms on his 
deterioration, knowing that he is running to seed no faster than his 
neighbors. 

The wind had gone to rest with the sun, and the sharp frost that followed 
left its congealed breath upon the shallow pools of water nearly half an 
inch in thickness by morning. From my bed I could see through the window 
the bright flashes from Cape May and Cape Henlopen lights. Had not 
misfortune beset me, a four-hours' pull would have landed me at Lewes. 
There was much to be thankful for, however. Through a merciful Providence 
it was my privilege to enjoy a soft bed at the Willow Grove Inn, and not a 
cold one on the sands of Slaughter Beach. So ended my last day on Delaware 
Bay.