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.
[Illustration: From Albany to New York City.
Route of Paper Canoe MARIA THERESA From Albany to New
York City Via Hudson River Followed by N. H. Bishop in 1874
_Copyright, 1878 by Lee & Shepard_]
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[B] 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."
[Illustration: THE ABORIGINAL TYPE (KAYAK.)]
[Illustration: THE IMPROVED TYPE (MARIA THERESA CANOE.)]
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, after 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, 5-1/2 " " 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 twelve 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.
Rondout, 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 the 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 fresh-water 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 landmark, 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 hard-worked 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. Brakeley, 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 a 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 which 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
face; 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.
FOOTNOTES:
[B] NOTE TO PAGE 72.--The author has been criticised by technical
canoeists for using oars on a canoe. On this cruise, experience proved
that the paddle could be used effectively only two miles out of every
three. Head winds and seas frequently drive the paddler into camp, while
the adaptive cruiser pushes on with oar and outrigger, and avoids the
loss of many hours. Many canoeists exploring our broad watercourses have
adopted the oar as an auxiliary,--the paddle properly taking the
precedence. We are progressing. The canoeist of 1882 may follow the
teachings of common-sense _vs._ unauthorized technical criticisms. Oars
on a light paddling canoe are out of place; but are a most effective
power on a heavy cruising canoe, insuring a successful voyage.