ing as if they were too pure
and innocent to be inhabitants of such a place.

Owing to the shallowness of the river at this season, and to the rapids,
the steam-boat is unable to go up the whole way to Peterborough, and a
scow or rowboat, as it is sometimes termed--a huge, unwieldy, flat-
bottomed machine--meets the passengers at a certain part of the river,
within sight of a singular pine tree on the right bank; this is termed
the "Yankee bonnet," from the fancied resemblance of the topmost boughs
to a sort of cap worn by the Yankees, not much unlike the blue bonnet of
Scotland.

Unfortunately, the steamer ran aground some four miles below the usual
place of rendezvous, and we waited till near four o'clock for the scow.
When it made its appearance, we found, to our discomfort, the rowers
(eight in number, and all Irishmen) were under the exciting influence of
a --g of whiskey, which they had drunk dry on the voyage. They were
moreover exasperated by the delay on the part of the steamer, which gave
them four miles additional heavy rowing. Beside a number of passengers
there was an enormous load of furniture, trunks, boxes, chests, sacks of
wheat, barrels of flour, salt, and pork, with many miscellaneous
packages and articles, small and great, which were piled to a height
that I thought very unsafe both to goods and passengers.

With a marvellous ill grace the men took up their oars when their load
was completed, but declared they would go on shore and make a fire and
cook their dinners, they not having eaten any food, though they had
taken large potations of the whiskey. This measure was opposed by some
of the gentlemen, and a fierce and angry scene ensued, which ended in
the mutineers flinging down their oars, and positively refusing to row
another stroke till they had satisfied their hunger.

Perhaps I had a fellow-feeling for them, as I began to be exceedingly
hungry, almost ravenous, myself, having fasted since six that morning;
indeed, so faint was I, that I was fain to get my husband to procure me
a morsel of the coarse uninviting bread that was produced by the rowers,
and which they ate with huge slices of raw pickled pork, seasoning this
unseemly meal with curses "not loud but deep," and bitter taunts against
those who prevented them from cooking their food like _Christians_.

While I was eagerly eating the bit of bread, an old farmer, who had eyed
me for some time with a mixture of curiosity and compassion,