e journey. Charts, maps, and sea-faring men had informed
me that about twenty-three hundred miles of the trip could be made upon
land-locked waters, but about two hundred miles of voyaging must be done
upon the open Atlantic Ocean.

As I now write, I smilingly remember how erroneous were my advisers;
for, while prosecuting my voyage, I was but once upon the open sea, and
then through mistake and for only a few minutes. Had I then known that I
could have followed the whole route in a small boat upon strictly
interior waters, I should have paddled from the Basin of Quebec in the
light paper canoe which I afterwards adopted at Troy, and which carried
me alone in safety two thousand miles to the warm regions of the Gulf of
Mexico. The counsels of old seamen had influenced me to adopt a large
wooden clinker-built, decked canoe, eighteen feet long, forty-five
inches beam, and twenty-four inches depth of hold, which weighed, with
oars, rudder, mast and sail, above three hundred pounds. The Mayeta was
built by an excellent workman, Mr. J. S. Lamson, at Bordentown, New
Jersey. The boat was sharp at each end, and the lines from amidships to
stem, and from amidships to sternpost, were alike. She possessed that
essential characteristic of seaworthiness, abundant sheer. The deck was
pierced for a cockpit in the centre, which was six feet long and
surrounded by a high combing to keep out water. The builder had done his
best to make the Mayeta serve for rowing and sailing--a most difficult
combination, and one not usually successful.

On the morning of July 4, 1874, I entered the Basin of Quebec with my
wooden canoe and my waterman, one David Bodfish, a "shoreman" of New
Jersey. After weeks of preparation and weary travel by rail and by
water, we had steamed up the Gulf and the River of St. Lawrence to this
our most northern point of departure. We viewed the frowning heights
upon which was perched the city of Quebec with unalloyed pleasure, and
eagerly scrambled up the high banks to see the interesting old city. The
tide, which rises at the city piers eighteen feet in the spring, during
the neaps reaches only thirteen feet. Late in the afternoon the incoming
tide promised to assist us in ascending the river, the downward current
of which runs with torrent-like velocity, and with a depth abreast the
city of from sixteen to twenty fathoms. Against this current powerful
steamers run one hundred and eighty miles up the river to Montreal i