THE SAIL BOAT.
NEXT day I left Albany for Rochester, _via_ the New York Central
Railroad. Those who have done much traveling by railroad must have been
annoyed and tormented from time to time by the flying dust, and the
smoke and cinders from the locomotive. Every dying spark that flies from
the chimney seems to go right for the eyes of any unhappy visage that
dares to thrust itself from a car window for a breath of fresh air or a
glance at the scenery ahead. And O, how it does hurt! The sting of a
bumblebee is joy compared with it.
On this occasion I determined to adopt a plan that would enable me to
thrust my head out all the time if I chose, and stare at the locomotive
with impunity. Before leaving Albany, I purchased a pair of fifty-cent
goggles—window-glass focus—which I wore during my journey from Albany to
Rochester (a distance of over two hundred miles). Hence, my eyes being
secure, I paid no attention to the smoke and dust I was continually
_breathing_; and the result was, that next morning my throat and lungs
were so sore as to interfere materially with my articulation, and for
some weeks I was afflicted with a regular “grave-yard cough,” that I had
reason to fear would merge into some permanent pulmonary affection. I
got over it, though, and I also got over wearing goggles on an express
train.
To this day, I can not help shuddering as I contemplate what a frightful
appearance I must have presented with those goggles on. A good-looking
young man like myself, on a crutch, with such an immense round patch on
either side of his nose, must have been a marvel to look at. I regret
that I did not procure a mirror, and take a look at myself while wearing
them, for I have never had the courage to put them on since.
My memory records that several passengers, with subdued smiles on their
countenances, manifested the most intense interest in my welfare, and
asked me what was the matter with my eyes? In reply to this impertinent
question, I gave them to understand that it was an hereditary weakness
of the “windows of the soul;” and intimated that the Smith family had,
from time immemorial, been amateur astronomers, and had done a good deal
of gazing at the moon and stars.
The New York Central Railroad takes its way through the beautiful Mohawk
valley. That valley is famed in history, and we read of a great many
bloody scenes enacted there by the savage Mohawk tribe; but I think that
now, with its green meadows, its fields of grain, its grazing sheep and
cattle, its farm-houses and dairies, with PEACE smiling over all, it is
far more beautiful and interesting than it was in its wildness, when the
red-skinned son of nature made it his home, and followed killing bears,
deer, and the pale-faces for a living.
There is one grand picture in the Mohawk valley which I can not forbear
to mention. It is an enchanting cascade. The amount of water is not
great, but it comes streaming down from a height of two hundred feet,
sparkling in the sunbeams, and bounding from rock to rock like a thing
of life. For calm, quiet enjoyment, I would rather sit among the trees
that hover about this romantic cascade and listen to its murmurs, than
on the banks of the Niagara, and hear the roars of that grand old
cataract.
It was after night-fall when we reached Rochester, and as I wanted to
stay there a few days, I went into an hotel that was in the same
building with the depot _itself_, and registered my name. Next morning I
walked out and looked about me. Rochester is a very pleasant city of
about sixty thousand inhabitants, and is situated at the Falls of the
Genesee river, seven miles from Lake Ontario. I say _at_ the Falls, for
the city is built on all sides of the cataract, except one. It occupies
either shore, and one of its principal streets, with its solid rows of
buildings, actually _crosses_ the river on an arched bridge or viaduct
about two hundred yards above the Falls.
It will be remembered that it was at these Falls that Samuel Patch,
Esquire, made his last leap; and here I am compelled to dispel a very
popular delusion that prevails in regard to the matter. I do not wish to
detach a particle from the glory and honor of Mr. Patch, for he was an
American, like myself—not exactly like myself, either, for he is said to
have had two legs—and I feel a kind of national pride in holding him up
before the world as the paragon of jumpers. But what I wish to say, is
this: Patch did not stand in the water below, as is generally supposed,
and jump _up_ over the falls. On the contrary, he stood above on a
platform erected at the brink of the precipice, where there was not much
water pouring over at the time, and jumped _down_; and who couldn’t do
that? I saw persons in Rochester who saw him make his last leap, and
they told me all about it, confidentially.
Another thing: It is generally known that Patch leaped over the Falls of
Genesee twice, but it is not generally known on which of these occasions
he killed himself; some suppose it was the first: but I can assure them,
on the best authority, that it was his second leap at Rochester, and not
his first, that proved fatal.
On one occasion Daniel Webster was called upon to speak at a public
dinner given at Rochester. “Gentlemen,” said he, “Athens had her
Acropolis, and Rome her Coliseum, but, gentlemen, they could boast of no
such falls as those of Rochester!” Here, being slightly under the
influence of the wine which he had been drinking, he paused, and
hesitating, was about to sit down, when some one whispered to him “The
national debt!” Rising to his full height the great orator exclaimed:
“And then, gentlemen, there is the National Debt! It should be paid,
gentlemen. It must be paid, gentlemen.” And then, in louder tones, “I’ll
be d——d if it _shan’t_ be paid. _I’ll pay it myself!_” pulling out his
pocket-book. “HOW MUCH IS IT?”
Two miles below Rochester there is a wharf where steamboats and other
lake craft land, and where a man keeps boats to let. The street-cars run
to within three quarters of a mile of the place, and I got on one and
rode down. On leaving the car at the terminus of the city railway, I
walked to the river bank, and found a graded wagon-road leading down to
the landing, the bank being about two hundred feet high; and very steep.
When I reached the landing I concluded to hire a sail boat and have a
little ride on the river.
“Can you manage one?” asked the owner.
“O, yes,” I replied. “That is, pretty well.” The truth was, I had never
tried it, and therefore didn’t know whether I could manage one or not.
“Well, take that one,” said he, pointing to a small sail boat of about
three quarters of a ton burthen. “There are oars in it, and if you can
not manage it you can row it back.”
It was well enough, for without those oars I could never have brought it
back. I got in, the sail being set, and he pushed me from shore. A stiff
breeze was sweeping down the river, and I did not like to run before it,
lest it should blow me out upon the lake and clear over to Canada. So, I
thought I would try tacking, and run up the river a little way, in order
to have easy sailing back. With the helm in one hand and a line attached
to the boom in the other, I went flying across the river, which was only
about four hundred feet wide, and presently brought up against the other
shore. I looked quickly around to see if the owner was observing me,
found he wasn’t, pushed my boat off with an oar, got the sail set right
for the other tack, and went sailing for the western shore again. This
time, I “tacked” in time, turned the boat pretty skillfully, and the
boom sweeping around before the wind hit me a deuce of a “belt” on the
head and knocked my hat off into the water. I then lowered the sail and
shipped the oars. Recovering my hat, I then unshipped the oars, and
hoisted my sail again.
[Illustration:
“The boom sweeping around before the wind, hit me a deuce of a ‘belt’
on the head and knocked my hat off into the water.”—_Smith on the
Genesee. Page 120._
]
I had seen persons “tack” before, and make pretty good time against a
head-wind. It looked simple and easy; but with me it went rather
awkwardly. I couldn’t make any “time” up stream at all, but found after
each “tack” that I had drifted further and further down. I had better
have cast anchor and waited for a port or starboard wind, so far as
making “time” was concerned.
At last, much disgusted with a sail boat, I lowered my sail and took her
in with the oars, vowing never to try a sail boat again: another vow I
kept for nearly a year.
I then hired a light row boat and went up to the “Lower Falls”—that is,
a cataract of some seventy or eighty feet, about a mile and a half below
the principal Falls of Genesee. I had some stiff rowing to get up, too,
for the current was very swift near the Falls. But didn’t I come back,
though, when I started to return! I only used my oars to keep the boat
straight, and the current carried me down as the wind bears a feather
before it.
The next day was Sunday, and learning that a small steam pleasure boat
was to make a trip that afternoon from the landing, to a little harbor
on the lake shore, some eight or ten miles from the mouth of the river,
I went down and embarked for the voyage.
The boat started early in the afternoon, crowded with pleasure-seekers.
It was the slowest boat and about the lightest draft steamboat I ever
had the honor to travel on. We were three or four hours reaching our
destination: and on entering the harbor, she plowed through the
shallowest water I ever saw navigated. The water in the lake was low at
that time, and we passed over some places where the rushes grew up so
thick that at a little distance the water could not be seen at all. It
looked a little more like navigating a meadow than any thing I ever saw.
At intervals, when we could see the water ahead of us, it did not appear
to be a foot deep. And, O, the way our boat stirred the mud up! I pity
the fish that lost their way in our wake: they must have been a long
time finding it again.
The voyage was a little tedious, in consequence of the slow “time” we
made, but not unpleasant. It was nine o’clock that evening when we
returned to the landing in the Genesee river, and a two-horse spring
wagon waited there for all who preferred a ten-cent ride up the long
hill to a free walk. I preferred the ride and got in. But I wished
myself out again before we reached the upper end of the perilous road,
for I never enjoyed the luxury of a more dangerous ride. It was
extremely dark—so dark that you couldn’t have seen a candle, if it had
not been lighted—and the wagon was crowded. As we moved up the road
there was a high perpendicular bank on our right hand, and on our left
was the brink of a steep precipice, whose height became greater and
greater as we advanced; and I could not help contemplating the fearful
consequences of a possible accident, such as the balking of the horses,
the breaking of the traces, or the giving way of the earth at the brink
of the declivity beneath the weight of the wheels. It was, in truth, a
perilous ride, and before we reached the top of the tall shore half the
passengers had got scared and jumped off: but I had paid for my ride,
and was determined to have it at the risk of my neck. So I stayed in.
We reached the head of the narrow road without accident, and
half-an-hour later I was in my bed, reposing after the pleasures and
perils of the day.