ome.

"The war is over," he said, "and any northern _gentleman_ is welcome to
what we have left." Until midnight, this keen-eyed, intelligent officer
entertained me with a flow of anecdotes of the war times, his
hair-breadth escapes, &c.; the conversation being only interrupted when
he paused to pile wood upon the fire, the chimney-place meantime glowing
like a furnace. He told me that Captain Maffitt, of the late Confederate
navy, lived at Masonboro, on the sound; and that had I called upon him,
he could have furnished, as an old officer of the Coast Survey, much
valuable geographical information. This pleasant conversation was at
last interrupted by the wife of my host, who warned us in her courteous
way of the lateness of the hour. With a good-night to my host, and a sad
farewell to the sea, I prepared myself for the morrow's journey.

CHAPTER XI.

FROM CAPE FEAR TO CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA.

A PORTAGE TO LAKE WACCAMAW.--THE SUBMERGED SWAMPS.--NIGHT AT A
TURPENTINE DISTILLERY.--A DISMAL WILDERNESS.--OWLS AND
MISTLETOE.--CRACKERS AND NEGROES.--ACROSS THE SOUTH CAROLINA LINE.--A
CRACKER'S IDEA OF HOSPITALITY.--POT BLUFF.--PEEDEE
RIVER.--GEORGETOWN.--WINYAH BAY.--THE RICE PLANTATIONS OF THE SANTEE
RIVERS.--A NIGHT WITH THE SANTEE NEGROES.--ARRIVAL AT CHARLESTON.

To reach my next point of embarkation a portage was necessary.
Wilmington was twelve miles distant, and I reached the railroad station
of that city with my canoe packed in a bed of corn-husks, on a one-horse
dray, in time to take the evening train to Flemington, on Lake Waccamaw.
The polite general freight-agent, Mr. A. Pope, allowed my canoe to be
transported in the passenger baggage-car, where, as it had no covering,
I was obliged to steady it during the ride of thirty-two miles, to
protect it from the friction caused by the motion of the train.

Mr. Pope quietly telegraphed to the few families at the lake, "Take care
of the paper canoe;" so when my destination was reached, kind voices
greeted me through the darkness and offered me the hospitalities of Mrs.
Brothers' home-like inn at the Flemington Station. After Mr. Carroll had
conveyed the boat to his storehouse, we all sat down to tea as sociably
as though we were old friends.

On the morrow we carried the Maria Theresa on our shoulders to the
little lake, out of which the long and crooked river with its dark
cypress waters flowed to the sea. A son of Mr. Short, a landed
proprietor who ho