could reach, the logs forming the path were covered with terrapins and snakes known as the water moccasin. Incredible numbers of the latter put to blush the maddest dreams of a victim of mania-a-potu. In some places a fallen hemlock would be literally covered, as basking in the torrid noonday sun they curled on the massive trunk, and entwined along the branches, their brillianthued variegated bodies glinting in the sunlight, presenting a beautiful but horrible picture. There seemed to exist a perfect entente cordiale between them and the terrapins, for they rested peacefully cheek by jowl.

Above the gentle low swish made by the passage of the boat through the water would be heard the splash! splash! of the reptiles and the turtles as they slid off the logs, their heads popping up like corks along the route. The boatmen did not seem to mind them, frequently treading them down as they made a miss-step over their boottops into the mire. It seems as if the African has not that antipathy to serpents cherished by the Anglo-Saxon.

"Uncle," I said, going back to the rear of the boat where a venerable darkey held the helm, "there are plenty of snakes about here."

"The boatmen do not seem to mind them?" "No, sar; we gits used to dem!"

"Do any of the hands ever get bitten ?"

"Oh, yes, sar, sometimes; but we allus cures de bite by drinkin'. Some of dese no-count niggers would rather get bitten dan not; dey loves whisky so!"

"Wouldn't you be afraid to travel along here in the night-time?"

"'Fraid! Lor', massa, no! I comes offen to set my traps. The only thing I'se 'fraid of is ghostesses, and thar ain't none here I ever seed, tho' I hear tells on em."

"What kind of traps?"

'Terrapins-snappers we calls 'em." "How do you catch them ?"

"We takes, sar, a piece of twine as long as your arm, wid a hook at one en', and baits 'em wid a frog, tied live by dere leg, den tie de oder en' to de log. De snapper comes along and swallows de frog, and we carries him home, string and all. We catches plenty when de moon is right."

"The moon! What has that to do with it?" "Why, sar, you see de snapper don't bite well 'cept when dar's a full moon, sar."

"Why, how do you account for it?"

"I dunno, young massa; 'pears to me the frog can't see 'em in the dark, and de snapper gits all

"Plenty of bars, sar. When we's a settin' our coon and possum snares in de night we hears 'em a plungin', a scrimmagin' and a runnin' thru' de canes, but lor's a massy, dey nebber 'sturbs us." "Do the sportsmen ever kill any?"

"Not in de swamp, sar; de canes dey is too close up to follow dem up. De farmer hyar about what libs on de edge of dis swamp shoots at 'em when dey comes out to eat de green corn. Bars is monstrous fond of green corn an' melons." "And darkeys, too, are they not, uncle !" inquired the artist amusedly.

The ancient son of Africa, with respectful dab at the short, woolly, whitened forelock in honor of the last speaker, opened his mouth in an enormous grin, and his eyes looked unutterable things. "Sure dey is, sar.

Bars and niggers is alike and dat's a fac. Strange dis chile nebber thought ob dat before !"

And here the old oarsman, unable to repress his delight, burst into a resounding peal of laughter most satisfactory to himself.

We continued our questions, but this time at random.

"Going to vote, un

cle ?"

"Sure I is, massa! You bet dis chile goin' to vote."

"How do you vote?" "Don't know, sar! Ain't voted yit, but when I goes to town to git my 'visions, I'se

It was our time to laugh; but still we questioned, "Well, uncle, whom will you vote for ?"

"Ain't certin' yit, massa. My ole wife, sar, is a mitey great 'rusticrate-none of your low-down, common niggers, 'cause she 'longed to ole Squire Page, sar, when she was a gal, and waited on de young missuses. She sez, sez she, 'Now ole man you jes vote for Gineral Washington, 'cause he's real qual'ty, an' no mistake.' But lor', massa, wimmin ain't got no sense, nohow, so I don't let on to de ole 'oman, but, sez I to myself, sez I, 'Old nigger, you goin' to vote for Mars Linkum, 'cause he done sot you free, and you orter not to treat him mean after dat-nohow you can fix it.' So, massa, I goin' vote for Mars Linkum, sure."

The boat was now turning off into a side-passage, and Bob resumed the helm. The last we saw and

heard of the old darkey he had put aside his politics, and, reverting to the former theme, was chuckling to himself, "Bars and niggers is alike; strange I nebber thought ob dat before."

Within three miles of the lake the scenery becomes exquisitely beautiful; neither grand nor striking, but simply, naturally beautiful; not the loveliness that stirs the senses and awakens wonder, but that which touches the heart, and gradually and silently deepens its spell. The canal loses all semblance of its title, and paddles come into requisition. Reeds, flowers, and the holly line each bank and nearly reach across, while away up in the air the branches of the majestic hemlock, the stately maple, over which vines, creepers, and funereal cypresses trail in graceful festoons, interlace, forming a grand avenue grand avenue so densely shaded that scarcely a fugitive ray of the sun is able to penetrate. As the boat glides in the stirless water, the avenue stretches before it straight as an arrow, and loses itself in a dim, indefinable aisle. The water of the canal looks as black as ink, though it is really the color of Madeira wine; its great peculiarity consisting in its faithful reflections of objects. Every tree, bush, flower, and shrub, even the butterfly that darts above it, and the spider-web that spans the chasm, are mirrored with marvelous distinctness and tint. Indeed, the color and delicate shades of hue are reproduced with such absolute fidelity that the effect is startling. Looking into the water as you glide, you feel as if you were really floating in air, while your own face gazes back into your eyes with a fidelity no mirror can excel in giving. In traveling through the swamp an exceedingly depressing feeling takes possession of the explorer. The absolute stillness, with not a sound to break the monotony, makes one sad in despite of all reason; and faces that one has seen never to meet again, and voices that have passed away save as they echo in memory, come back with a reality and a pathos that haunt only the dead, quiet, wakeful hours of night.

At last Lake Drummond opens to the gaze like the slow rising of the curtain disclosing the beauty of the stage; and one thinks if God ever made a fairer sheet of water, it is yet hidden away from mortal's gaze and ken.

Here it lies in the very centre of the great swamp, pure, undefiled, and fresh as a child's heart in the mad rush and roar of a city's life.

Its waters, whether at rest in placid repose, or stirred by winds gentle or rough, always wear their own rich ruby hue that gleams like gold in sunshine. Hidden deep away in the midst of an inaccessible swamp, this lovely lake seems to dream away its life, pure and untainted, from all contact with the world. One can almost believe it was conceived by Jupiter, and made for the chaste Diana to bathe in away from the haunts of men.

It is a novel and weird scene, this stretch of ruby water extending in all directions, for Lake Drummond is seven miles long by five wide, and looks longer than it really is. No sails gleaming on the water light up the dark background. No long, slender cloud of smoke darkens the horizon, marking the path of the swift-fleeting steamer. Naught but the calm, still lake, radiant in its solitary beauty, rests before you, bathed in a solemn calm, as if of Sabbath holiness. No sound of man's voice echoes over its placid surface; no sign of man's toil mars its deep serenity. Out of the slime, the mire, and the mud it has gathered up its waters, pure and uncontaminated as when first they fell from heaven. Like ruby wine. in crystal glass, it reflects the light of sun and star in the same rich glow and sparkle as when it was first distilled by its Maker, and held purely apart in his hand away from all eyes but his. The beautiful lake of the Dismal Swamp!-like the one oasis in the desert-the precious gem in the miser's hoardings-the jewel in the toad's headyou are yet the heart of the swamp, and, hidden in its jealous embrace, its very life, and its “joy forever."

In olden times the Dismal was never entered, and it was as late as the Revolutionary war that a hunter named Drummond first discovered the lake. To the people who lived upon its edges its unexplored waste was a land of lost spirits-a land of Plutonian shadows. "Once entered, none return,’ was what they thought and said. And thus it was that rumor, tradition, and superstition combined made of it a veritable realm of enchantment, within whose confines dwelt warlock, witches, hobgoblins, and, if the truth must be told, the very Devil himself, hoofs and horns included. There were tales told, too, as Colonel Byrd writes, of numberless wild animals vast in size, and of surpassing strength and fierceness, the like of which mortal eyes had never seen

before. The boldest sportsman only skirted its extremest edge in pursuit of game-none so brave or daring to venture within such an undoubted Valley of the Shadow of Death.

But the hunter Drummond on one occasion became absorbed in his chase of a wounded deer, and caution was forgot for the while. He followed his game so far into the recesses of the swamp that he became lost. In its worse than Cretan labyrinths he wandered hopelessly and aimlessly for three whole days, until want of food and sleep and excessive fatigue had well-nigh cost him his life. One cannot help fancying his feelings during the time of trial; his constant wanderings and incessant struggles; his sickness of heart, and helpless despair; and afterward the ecstasy and delight when, worn and weary, foot-sore and fainting, the fair sheet of water

that they send for regular supplies, and use none other. It keeps pure for a great length of time; consequently ships bound on a long voyage often have their casks filled from the clear depths of Lake Drummond. The taste is slightly acrid, but that only adds to the zest in drinking it. There used to be a popular superstition that some portions of the lake were fathomless, but Commodore Barron, of the United States Navy, when on a tour with a party of friends, sounded them thoroughly, and found their average depth about twelve feet. The greatest depth was in the middle, and not exceeding twenty feet. The bottom is generally of mud, but sometimes of pure sand. Such is the extreme loveliness of Lake Drum

gleaming in placid beauty burst upon his bewildered senses. Did he think it a dream? one that would vanish from his distempered fancy when he should reach it, and try to bathe his brow in the cooling drops? Be that as it may, emboldened and buoyed up by his discovery, he made his way from the swamp and reported the news of the wonderful lake hidden away in the morass.

The place was called after him, affording one of the few instances on record in which the discoverer was known to leave his name and render it famous.

The lake has no beach, the forest-trees running close up to its boundary, and standing like so many sentinels around it. The water is tinctured and colored by juniper, gum-leaves, and other decaying vegetable matter, hence is considered possessed of fine medicinal properties for all pulmonary diseases. Invalids so suffering have confessed themselves beneñted to such an extent

mond that many years before the war a speculator with an eye to untold millions built a cheap hotel on the spot, and advertised for stray tourists, for anglers, and for sportsmen who wanted to practice their art. He guaranteed the swamp as perfectly free from all reasonable diseases-indeed, declared it the healthiest summer resort in the world; and the waters, he said, teemed with fish in all primeval abundance; as for game, the Swamp was overflowing. This was all true; but by the first of August, landlord, guests, waiters, chambermaidsall hands-had cleared out, bag and baggage. Mosquitoes, gad-flies, gallinippers, sand and yellow-flies had answered the advertisement in countless numbers, resolved to fight it out on that line if it took all summer, and immediately bloody battles ensued. Between them and their victims the fight waxed wild and wilder, without pause or cessation by day and by night, in sunlight and starlight; sitting, walking, eating, until the rout

was complete. Not a man, woman, or child was left to tell the tale. Only the house built on an artificial foundation remained as a monument to mark the spot of the fierce encounter, and that when we saw it was slowly sinking into dignified and stately ruin.

Stopping at an unoccupied cabin under the shade of a clump of huge trees, in which workmen once lived, we took our dinners (Bob averaging six), smoked our pipes, and awaited the lengthening shadows of the afternoon. Then we pushed out the boat and spent several hours in fishing. So plentiful are the fish, and of so great variety, and so rapidly do they bite, that our boat was soon half-full.

Of course, Lake Drummond has its traditions; not of horror, of blood, or crime, but in fit keeping with the divine and mystic fairness of the scene. One, the oldest, is as follows: Before colonial times even an Indian warrior dared to love the daughter of his chief, who, like many fathers, raised the mischief because the young man could not show more wealth than a pair of strong arms and a brave heart. "No ponies, no blankets, no beads, no nothing." But the lover. had won the maiden's heart; that much was his, at least. Her listening ear was not hard to gain, and so she was persuaded, by dint of eloquence and blarney, to run off to the lake he had found in the swamp near by, there to live on perfect happiness and fish, till old age should set in, or the abode of the Great Spirit be sooner reached. They eloped in true lovers' fashion. Years went by, and there they remained in the swamp, mourned as dead in the hunting-grounds and wigwams of an extended acquaintance. Then they were seen to cross the lake together in a canoe, and were never heard of more. But the Great Spirit was so pleased with the love and rare devotion displayed by the warrior and his bride, that he ever allows them at stated intervals, as great marks of his favor, to return on earth and linger in the scene of their former happiness; and this they ever continue to do, winding up the little pleasure-trip by a midnight sail on the moonlit waters. Then they vanish into spirit-land as noiselessly and mysteriously as they came, leaving but a meteor's flash to mark the way they went. Moore, in his " Melodies," gives us another tender tradition of the swamp, and with this we are more familiar. A young man lost his mind

Evening shades were now drawing nigh. The sun sinking beneath the tops of the lofty trees cast the reflection of the majestic cypress on the mirrored water at its feet. From the borders fringed with myrtle, laurel, and yellow jessamine floated fragrant odors that loaded the air with voluptuous, rich perfume. As the sun dipped lower to the horizon, the gray shadows deepened and the warmth died out of the lake. The dense woods closing up in serried ranks around the water became merged into one sombre mass that cut blackly against the sky, like a huge wall shutting out the world. The soft night gently and slowly descended over earth, while the observer, mute and spell-bound, gave himself up to the influences of the hour. Then the stars stole out one by one, each reproduced by the reflecting lake, till it glittered like a heaven below, no constellation wanting. Fire-flies swarmed from the woods in myriads. The night's darkness seemed broken up in myriad scintillations-dis