THE VISIT OF TOM. MOORE, AS RELATED BY TONY.
As Uncle Tony was, perhaps, the oldest person, and knew more about the
Lake than any person then engaged at it, he was awakened, and Mr.
Woodward said: "Uncle Tony, I want you to tell us about the man whom
you said you brought to the Lake in 1821." "Who tole you 'bout dat
boss?" inquired Uncle Tony, with an air of conscious pride. "It will
make no difference, go on and tell us," returned Mr. Woodward. Tony
scratched his head, then putting some tobacco in his pipe, took out
his flint and steel (matches not being known in the swamp at that
day,) and soon had fire enough to light his pipe. Drawing on it enough
to get his "nigger head" tobacco to burn, and fixing himself on the
end of his log, he commenced: "Boss, I shall nebber forgit dat time.
One mornin' as I war gittin' my skiff ready to go to de Lake, a mity
nice lookin' man cum up to me an' said: 'Buck, ar' you de man dat will
carry me to de Lake ob de Dismal Swamp, for which I will pay you one
pound?' De gemman talked so putty, dat I tole him to git in my skiff,
an' I wud carry him to de Lake. I notice' dat he kep' writin' all de
way. When I got to de horse camps I stopped to get somfin to eat. He
cum outen de skiff an' ax me what I stop for. I tole him I stop to eat
some meat an' bread. He ax me if I wud hav' a drink. I tuk off my hat
an' tole him dat I wud be much obleged to him for it. He foched a
silber jug, wid a silber cup for a stopper, and said: 'My man, dis is
Irish whiskey. I brung it all de way from home.' He tole me dat his
name was Thomas Moore, an' dat he cum fom 'way ober yonder--I dun
forgot de name of de place--an' was gwine to de Lake to write 'bout a
spirit dat is seed dar paddlin' a kunnue. De har 'gin tu rise on my
hed an' I ax him ef dat was a fac'. He sed dat he was told so in
Norfolk. It was gin out dar dat a mity putty gal had loss her
sweethart, an' had dun gone crazy, an' had gone to de Lake ob de
Dismal Swamp an' drown herself, an' dat she ken be seen ebery night by
de lite ob some sort ob fli." "I tell you, boss," continued the old
man, "when he tole me 'bout dat gal paddlin' dat bote on de Lake at
nite, I diden' want to go any furder wid him, but he tole me dar wud
be no danger. I cud not see hur, so I carrid him on to de Lake. He rit
like de gal had run away an' had been drowned rite here. I shal nebber
forget dat gentman. I fotch him back an' he gin me de poun', which war
five dollars, an' he lef' for Norfolk, bein' mitey glad dat I had
carrid him to de Lake."
"Tony, did he tell you anything about his trip?" inquired Mr.
Woodward.
"Yas, sar," replied the old man. "He tole me dat he had trabbled an'
seen sites, but dat he nebber was so 'stonish befo'; he did not spec'
to see at de end ob de kunel such a putty place; an' dat I wud hear
som time what he was gwine tu say 'bout it." "That was Tom Moore, the
Irish poet," said Mr. W. "De who?" interrupted Tony. "He came to this
country," continued Mr. W. "to visit the Lake, as being one of the
wonders of nature, and you were fortunate in having to wait on such a
distinguished person."
Tom Moore, after he had arrived in this country, no doubt heard of the
Lake of the Dismal Swamp, and when he reached Norfolk, Va., and the
story of the fair maiden and her lover being fresh, might have induced
him to visit it, and it was on that occasion that he penned the
following lines:
"They made her a grave that was too cold and damp,
For a soul so warm and true."
His poem on the "Lake of the Dismal Swamp," no doubt, is familiar with
every person of ordinary information, and can be found in every
library, and should be read by every person who has never done so.