After a close study of the face of the pilot on watch, I was satisfied that I had never seen him before, so I went up there. The pilot inspected me. I reinspected the pilot. The customary preliminaries over, I sat down on the high bench, and he faced about and went on with his work. Every detail of the pilot house was familiar to me, with one exception, a large mouth tube under the breastboard. I puzzled over that thing a considerable time, then gave up and asked what it was for. To hear the engine bells through. It was another good contrivance which ought to have been invented half a century sooner, so I was thinking when the pilot asked, Do you know what this rope is for? I managed to get around this question without committing myself. Is this the first time you were ever in a pilot house? I crept under that one. Where are you from? New England? First time you have ever been west? I climbed over this one. If you take an interest in such things I can tell you what all these things are for. I said I should like it. This, putting his hand on a backing-bell rope, is to sound the fire alarms. This, putting his hand on a go-ahead-bell, is to call the Texas Tender. This one, indicating the whistle-lever, is to call the captain, and so he went on, touching one object after another, and reeling off his tranquil spool of lies. I had never felt so like a passenger before. I thanked him with emotion, for each new fact, and wrote it down in my notebook. The pilot warmed to his opportunity and proceeded to load me up in the good old-fashioned way. At times I was afraid he was going to rupture his invention, but it always stood the strain, and he pulled through all right. He drifted, by easy stages, into revealments of the river's marvelous eccentricities of one sort and another, and backed them up with some pretty gigantic illustrations. For instance, do you see that little boulder sticking out of the water yonder? Well, when I first came on the river, that was a solid ridge of rock, over sixty feet high and two miles long. All washed away but that. This, with a sigh. I had a mighty impulse to destroy him, but it seemed to me that killing in any ordinary way would be too good for him. Once when an odd-looking craft with a vast coals-scuttle slanting aloft on the end of a beam was steaming by in the distance, he indifferently drew attention to it, as one might to an object grown wearisome through familiarity, and observed that it was an alligator boat. An alligator boat? What's it for? To dredge out alligators with? Are they so thick as to be troublesome? Well, not now, because the government keeps them down, but they used to be, not everywhere, but in favorite places here and there, where the river is wide and shoal-like plum-point and the Stack Island, and so on, places they call alligator beds. Did they actually impede navigation? Years ago, yes, in very low water. There was hardly a trip, then, that we didn't get a ground on alligators. It seemed to me that I should certainly have to get out my tomahawk. However, I restrained myself and said, It must have been dreadful. Yes, it was one of the main difficulties about piloting. It was so hard to tell anything about the water, the damned things, shift around so, never lie still five minutes at a time. You can tell a wind-reef straight off, by the look of it. You can tell a break. You can tell a sand-reef. That's all easy, but an alligator-reef doesn't show up, worth anything. Nine times in ten you can't tell where the water is, and when you do see where it is, like it's not, it ain't there when you get there. The devils have swapped around so, meantime. Of course, there were some few pilots that could judge of alligator water nearly as well as they could of any other kind, but they had to have natural talent for it. It wasn't a thing a body could learn. He had to be born with it. Let me see, there was Ben Thornburg, and Beck Jolly, and Squire Bell, and Horace Bixby, and Major Downing, and John Stephenson, and Billy Gordon, and Jim Brady, and George Ealer, and Billy Youngblood, all A1 alligator pilots. They could tell alligator water as far as another Christian could tell whiskey. Read it? Ah, couldn't they, though? I only wish I had as many dollars as they could read alligator water a mile and a half off. Yes, and it paid them to do it, too. A good alligator pilot could always get fifteen hundred dollars a month. Knights, other people, had to lay up for alligators. But those fellows never laid up for alligators. They never laid up for anything but fog. They could smell the best alligator water it was had. I don't know whether it was so or not, and I think a body's got his hands full enough if he sticks to just what he knows himself without going around backing up other people's say-sos, though there's plenty that ain't backward about doing it, as long as they can roust out something wonderful to tell, which is not the style of Robert Stiles by as much as three-fathom, maybe quarter less. My! Was this Robert Stiles? This mustached and stately figure? A slim enough cub in my time? How he has improved in comeliness in five and twenty year, and in the noble art of inflating his facts. After these musings I said aloud, I should think that dredging out the alligators wouldn't have done much good, because they could come back again right away. If you had had as much experience of alligators as I have you wouldn't talk like that. You dredge an alligator once, and he's convinced. It's the last you hear of him. He wouldn't come back for pie. If there's one thing that an alligator is more down on than another, it's being dredged. Besides, they were not simply shoved out of the way. The most of the scoopful were scooped aboard. They emptied them into the hold, and when they had got a trip they took them to Orlins, to the government works. What for? Why to make soldier shoes out of their hides? All the government shoes are made of alligator hide. It makes the best shoes in the world.  The alligator fishery is a government monopoly. All the alligators are government property, just like the live oaks.   Lucky duck if they don't hang you too.  The buzzard is the sacred bird of the south, and you can't touch him. The alligator is the sacred bird of the government, and you've got to let him alone. Do you ever get aground on the alligators now? Oh, no. It hasn't happened for years. Well, then, why do they still keep the alligator boats in service? Just for police duty, nothing more. They merely go up and down now and then. The present generation of alligators know them as easy as a burglar knows a roundsman. When they see one coming they break camp and go for the woods. After rounding out and finishing up and polishing off the alligator business, he dropped easily and comfortably into the historical vein, and told of some tremendous feats of half a dozen old-time steamboats of his acquaintance, dwelling at special length upon a certain extraordinary performance of his chief favorite among this distinguished fleet, and then adding, That boat was the cyclone. Last trip she ever made. She sunk that very trip.  He couldn't ever seem to tell the truth in any kind of weather. Why, he would make you fairly shudder.  I left him finally. I couldn't stand it. The proverb says, Like master, like man, and if you stay with that kind of a man, you'll come under suspicion by and by, just as sure as you live. He paid first-class wages, but I said, What's wages when your reputation's in danger? So I let the wages go and froze to my reputation. And I've never regretted it. Reputation's worth everything, ain't it? That's the way I look at it. He had more selfish organs than any seven men in the world, all packed in the stern sheets of his skull, of course, where they belonged.  People thought it was vanity, but it wasn't. It was malice. If you only saw his foot, you'd take him to be nineteen feet high. But he wasn't. It was because his foot was out of drawing. He was intended to be nineteen feet high, no doubt, if his foot was made first. But he didn't get there. He was only five feet ten. That's what he was, and that's what he is. You take the lies out of him, and he'll shrink to the size of your hat. You take the malice out of him, and he'll disappear. That cyclone was a rattler to go, and the sweetest thing to steer that ever walked the waters. Set her amidships in a big river and just let her go. It was all you had to do.  You couldn't ever feel her rudder. It wasn't any more labor to steer her than it is to count the Republican vote in a South Carolina election. One morning, just a daybreak, the last trip she ever made, they took her rudder aboard to mend it. I didn't know anything about it. I backed her out from the woodyard and went a-weaving down the river all serene, when I had gone about twenty-three miles and made four horribly crooked crossings. Without any rudder? Yes, old Captain Tom appeared on the roof and began to find fault with me for running such a dark night. Such a dark night? Why, you said, never mind what I said, it was as dark as Egypt now, though pretty soon the moon began to rise, and well, you mean the sun. Because you started out just at the break of-well, look here! Was this before you quitted the Captain on account of his lying, or it was before? Oh, a long time before. And as I was saying, he-but was this the trip she sunk, or was-oh no, months afterward. And so the old man, he-then she made two last trips, because you said-he stepped back from the wheel, swabbing away his perspiration, and said, Here, calling me by name, you take her and lie awhile. You're handier at it than I am. Trying to play yourself for a stranger and an innocent.  It was to draw me out. Well, I let you, didn't I? Now take the wheel and finish the watch, and next time play fair, and you won't have to work your passage. Thus ended the fictitious name business, and not six hours out from St. Louis, but I had gained a privilege anyway, for I had been itching to get my hands on the wheel from the beginning. I seemed to have forgotten the river, but I hadn't forgotten how to steer a steamboat, nor how to enjoy it either. CHAPTER XXVIII. The scenery from St. Louis to Cairo, two hundred miles, is varied and beautiful. The hills were closed in the fresh foliage of spring now, and were a gracious and worthy setting for the broad river flowing between. Our trip began auspiciously with a perfect day, as to breeze and sunshine, and our boat threw the miles out behind her with satisfactory dispatch. We found a railway intruding at Chester, Illinois. Chester has also a penitentiary now, and is otherwise marching on. At Grand Tower, too, there was a railway, and another at Cape Girardeau. The former town gets its name from a huge squat pillar of rock, which stands up out of the water on the Missouri side of the river, a piece of nature's fanciful handiwork, and is one of the most picturesque features of the scenery of that region. For nearer or remote neighbors the tower has the Devil's Bake Oven, so called, perhaps, because it does not powerfully resemble anybody else's Bake Oven, and the Devil's Tea Table. This latter, a great smooth surfaced mass of rock, with diminishing wine-glass stem, perched some fifty or sixty feet above the river, beside a befloured and garlanded precipice, and sufficiently like a tea-table to answer for anybody, devil or Christian. Away down the river we have the Devil's Elbow and the Devil's Race-Course, and lots of other property of his, which I cannot now call to mind. The town of Grand Tower was evidently a busier place than it had been in old times, but it seemed to need some repairs here and there, and a new coat of whitewash all over. Still it was pleasant to me to see the old coat once more. Uncle Mumford, our second officer, said the place had been suffering from high water, and consequently was not looking its best now, but he said it was not strange that it didn't waste whitewash on itself, for more lime was made there, and of a better quality than anywhere in the West, and added, on a dairy farm you never can get any milk for your coffee, nor any sugar for it on a sugar plantation, and it is against sense to go to a limetown to hunt for whitewash. In my own experience I knew the first two items to be true, and also that people who sell candy don't care for candy. Therefore there was plausibility in Uncle Mumford's final observation that people who make lime run more to religion than whitewash. Uncle Mumford said further that Grand Tower was a great coaling-center and a prospering place. Cape Girardot is situated on a hillside, and makes a handsome appearance. There is a great Jesuit school for boys at the foot of the town by the river. Uncle Mumford said it had as high a reputation for thoroughness as any similar institution in Missouri. There was another college higher up on an airy summit, a bright new edifice, picturesquely and peculiarly towered and pinnacled, a sort of gigantic caster with the crew it's all complete. Uncle Mumford said that Cape Girardot was the Athens of Missouri, and contained several colleges besides those already mentioned, and all of them on a religious basis of one kind or another. He directed my attention to what he called the strong and pervasive religious look of the town, but I could not see that it looked more religious than the other hill towns with the same slope and built of the same kind of bricks. Partialities often make people see more than really exists. Uncle Mumford has been thirty years a mate on the river. He is a man of practical sense and a level head. Has observed, has had much experience of one sort and another, has opinions, has also just a perceptible dash of poetry in his composition, an easy gift of speech, a thick growl in his voice, and an oath or two where he can get at them when the exigencies of his office require a spiritual lift. He is a mate of the blessed old time kind, and goes gravely damning around when there is work to the fore in a way to mellow the esteemed boatman's heart with sweet soft longings for the vanished days that shall come no more.  Gonna be all day? Why don't you say you was petrified in your hind legs before you shipped? He is a steady man with his crew kind and just but firm, so they like him and stay with him. He is still in the slouchy garb of the old generation of mates, but next trip the anchor-line will have him in uniform, a natty, blue naval uniform with brass buttons along with all the officers of the line, and then he will be a totally different style of scenery from what he is now. Uniforms on the Mississippi. It beats all the other changes put together for surprise. Still there is another surprise that it was not made fifty years ago. It is so manifestly sensible that it might have been thought of earlier, one would suppose. During fifty years out there the innocent passenger in need of help and information has been mistaking the mate for the cook and the captain for the barber, and being roughly entertained for it too. But his troubles are ended now, and the greatly improved aspect of the boat's staff is another advantage achieved by the dress reform period. Steered down the bend below Cape Girardoux. They used to call it Steersman's Bend. Plain sailing and plenty of water in it always, about the only place in the upper river that a new cub was allowed to take a boat through in low water. Thebes, at the head of the grand chain, and commerce at the foot of it, were towns easily rememberable, as they had not undergone conspicuous alteration. Nor the chain, either, in the nature of things, for it is a chain of sunken rocks admirably arranged to capture and kill steamboats on bad nights. A good many steamboat corpses lie buried there, out of sight. Among the rest my first friend, the Paul Jones, she knocked her bottom out and went down like a pot, so the historian told me, Uncle Mumford, he said she had a gray mare aboard, and a preacher, to me, this sufficiently accounted for the disaster, as it did, of course, to Mumford, who added, but there are many ignorant people who would scoff at such a matter, and call it superstition, but you will always notice that there are people who have never traveled with a gray mare and a preacher. I went down the river once in such company. We grounded at Bloody Island. We grounded at Hanging Dog. We grounded just below this same commerce. We jolted Beaver Dam Rock. We hit one of the worst breaks in the graveyard behind Goose Island. We had a roast about killed in a fight. We burnt a boiler, broke a shaft, collapsed a flu, and went into Cairo with nine feet of water in the hold. May have been more. May have been less. I remember it as if it were yesterday. The men lost their heads with terror. They painted the mare blue, in sight of town, and threw the preacher overboard, or we should not have arrived at all. The preacher was fished out and saved. He acknowledged himself that he had been to blame. I remember it all as if it were yesterday. That this combination of preacher and gray mare should breed calamity seems strange, and at first glance unbelievable. But the fact is fortified by so much unassailable proof that to doubt is to dishonor reason. I myself remember a case where a captain was warned by numerous friends against taking a gray mare and a preacher with him, but persisted in his purpose in spite of all that could be said. And the same day—it may have been the next, and some say it was, though I think it was the same day—he got drunk and fell down the hatchway, and was born to his home a corpse. This is literally true. No vestige of Hat Island is left now. Every shred of it is washed away. I do not even remember what part of the river it used to be in, except that it was between St. Louis and Cairo somewhere. It was a bad region, all around and about Hat Island in early days. A farmer who lived on the Illinois shore there said that twenty-nine steamboats had left their bones strung along with insight from his house. Between St. Louis and Cairo the steamboat wrecks averaged one to the mile—two hundred wrecks altogether. I could recognize big changes from commerce down. Beaverdam Rock was out in the middle of the river now and throwing a prodigious break. It used to be close to the shore, and boats went down outside of it. A big island that used to be a way out in the mid-river has retired to the Missouri shore, and boats do not go near it anymore. The island called Jacket Pattern is whittled down to a wedge now, and is booked for early destruction. Goose Island is all gone, but a little dab the size of a steamboat. The perilous graveyard among whose numberless wrecks we used to pick our way so slowly and gingerly is far away from the channel now, and a terror to nobody. One of the islands formerly called the Two Sisters is gone entirely. The other, which used to lie close to the Illinois shore, is now on the Missouri side a mile away. It is joined solidly to the shore, and it takes a sharp eye to see where the seam is, but it is Illinois ground yet, and the people who live on it have to ferry themselves over and work the Illinois roads and pay Illinois taxes. Singular state of things. Near the mouth of the river several islands were missing, washed away. Cairo was still there, easily visible across the long, flat point upon whose further verge it stands, but we had to steam a long way around to get to it. Night fell as we were going out of the upper river and meeting the floods of the Ohio. We dashed along without anxiety, for the hidden rock which used to lie right in the way has moved upstream a long distance out of the channel, or rather about one county has gone into the river from the Missouri point and the Cairo point has made down and added to its long tongue of territory correspondingly. The Mississippi is a just and equitable river. It never tumbles one man's farm overboard without building a new farm just like it for that man's neighbor. This keeps down hard feelings. Going into Cairo we came near killing a steamboat which paid no attention to our whistle and then tried to cross our boughs. By doing some strong backing we saved him, which was a great loss, for he would have made good literature. Cairo is a brisk town now, and is substantially built, and has a city look about it, which is in noticeable contrast to its former estate, as per Mr. Dickens' portrait of it. However, it was already building with bricks when I had seen it last, which was when Colonel, now General, Grant, was drilling his first command there. Uncle Mumford says the libraries and Sunday schools have done a good work in Cairo, as well as the brick masons. Cairo has a heavy railroad and river trade, and her situation at the junction of the two great rivers is so advantageous that she cannot well help prospering. When I turned out in the morning we had passed Columbus, Kentucky, and were approaching Hickman, a pretty town perched on a handsome hill. Hickman is in a rich tobacco region, and formerly enjoyed a great and lucrative trade in that staple, collecting it there in her warehouses from a large area of country, and shipping it by boat. But Uncle Mumford says she built a railway to facilitate this commerce a little more, and he thinks it facilitated it the wrong way. Took the bulk of the trade out of her hands by collaring it along the line without gathering it at her doors. End of Chapter 25. Life on the Mississippi, by Mark Twain, Chapter 26. Under fire. Talk began to run upon the war now, for we were getting down into the upper edge of the former battle stretch by this time. This was just behind us, so there was a good deal said about the famous battle of Belmont. Several of the boat's officers had seen active service in the Mississippi war fleet. I gathered that they found themselves, sadly, out of their element in that kind of business at first, but afterward got accustomed to it, reconciled to it, and more or less at home in it. One of our pilots had his first war experience in the Belmont fight as a pilot on a boat in the Confederate service. I had often had a curiosity to know how a green hand might feel in his maiden battle perched all solitary and alone on high in a pilot-house, a target for Tom, Dick, and Harry, and nobody at his elbow to shame him from showing the white feather when matters grew hot and perilous around him. So, to me, his story was valuable. It filled a gap for me which all histories had left till that time empty. The pilot's first battle. He said, It was the 7th of November. The fight began at 7 in the morning. I was on the R.H.W. Hill, took over a load of troops from Columbus, came back, and took over a battery of artillery. My partner said he was going to see the fight, wanted me to go along. I said, No, I wasn't anxious. I would look at it from the pilot-house. He said I was a coward, and left. That fight was an awful sight.  I heard him say that from the pilot-house, and then he galloped in at the head of his troops. Old General Pillow, with his white hair mounted on a white horse, sailed in, too, leading his troops as lively as a boy. By and by the Federals chased the rebels back, and here they came, tearing along everybody for himself and devil-take the hindmost, and down under the bank they scrambled and took shelter. I was sitting with my legs hanging out with the pilot-house window. All at once I noticed a whizzing sound passing my ear. Judged it was a bullet. I didn't stop to think about anything. I just tilted over backwards and landed on the floor and stayed there.   One ball took off the corner of the pilot-house. Shells were screaming and bursting all around. Mighty warm times. I wished I hadn't come. I lay there on the pilot-house floor, while the shots came faster and faster. I crept in behind the big stove, in the middle of the pilot-house. Presently a mini-ball came through the stove. It just grazed my head and cut my hat. I judged it was time to go away from there. The captain was on the roof with the red-headed major from Memphis, a fine-looking man. I heard him say he wanted to leave here, but that pilot is killed. I crept over to the starboard side to pull the bell to set her back, raised up and took a look, and I saw about fifteen shot holes through the windowpains. Had come so lively I hadn't noticed them. I glanced out on the water and the spattering shot were like hail storm. I thought best to get out of that place. I went down the pilot-house guy, head first, not feet first, but head first, slid down, before I struck the deck. The captain said we must leave there, so I climbed up the guy and got on the floor again. About that time they collared my partner and were bringing him up to the pilot-house between two soldiers. Somebody had said I was killed. He put his head in and saw me on the floor reaching for the backing-bells. He said, oh, hell, he ain't shot, and jerked away from the men who had him by the collar and ran below. We were there until three o'clock in the afternoon and then got away all right. The next time I saw my partner I said, now come out, be honest, and tell me the truth. Where did you go when you went to see that battle? He says, I went down in the hold. All through that fight I was scared nearly to death. I hardly knew anything I was so frightened, but you see nobody knew that but me. Next day General Polk sent for me and praised me for my bravery and gallant conduct. I never said anything. I let it go at that. I judged it wasn't so, but it was not for me to contradict a general officer. Pretty soon after that I was sick and used up and had to go off to Hot Springs. When there I got a good many letters from commanders saying they wanted me to come back. I declined because I wasn't well enough or strong enough, but I kept still and kept the reputation I had made. A plain story, straightforwardly told. But Mumford told me that that pilot had gilded that scare of his in spots, that his subsequent career in the war was proof of it. We struck down through the chute of Island Number Eight, and I went below and fell into conversation with a passenger, a handsome man with easy carriage and an intelligent face. We were approaching Island Number Ten, a place so celebrated during the war. This gentleman's home was on the main shore in its neighborhood. I had some talk with him about the war times, but presently the discourse fell upon feuds, for in no part of the south has the vendetta flourished more briskly or held out longer between warring families than in this particular region. This gentleman said, There's been more than one feud around here in old times, but I reckon the worst one was between the Darnells and the Watsons. Nobody don't know now what the first quarrel was about. It's so long ago. The Darnells and the Watsons don't know, if there's any of them living, which I don't think there is. Some says it was about a horse or a cow. Anyway, it was a little matter. The money in it wasn't of no consequence, none in the world. Both families was rich. The thing could have been fixed up easy enough, but no, that wouldn't do. Rough words had been passed, and so nothing but blood could fix it up after that. That horse or cow, whichever it was, cost sixty years of killing and crippling. Every year or so somebody was shot on one side or the other, and as fast as one generation was laid out, their sons took up the feud and kept it a-going. And it's just as I say. They went on shooting each other year in and year out, making a kind of religion of it, you see, till they'd done forgot, long ago, what it was all about. Wherever a Darnell caught a Watson or a Watson caught a Darnell, one of them was going to get hurt. Only question was which of them got the drop on the other. They'd shoot one another down right in the presence of the family. They didn't hunt for each other, but when they happened to meet, they puffed and begun.  A man shot a boy twelve years old, happened on him in the woods, and didn't give him no chance. If he had had given him a chance, the boy to shot him. Both families belonged to the same church. Everybody round here is religious. Through all this fifty or sixty years fuss, both tribes was there every Sunday to worship. They lived each side of the line, and the church was at a landing called Compromise. Half the church and half the aisle was in Kentucky. The other half in Tennessee. Sundays you'd see the families drive up, all in their Sunday clothes, men, women, and children, and file up the aisle and set down, quiet and orderly. One lot on the Tennessee side of the church, and the other on the Kentucky side. And the men and boys would lean their guns up against the wall, handy, and then all hands would join in with the prayer and praise. Though they say the man next to the aisle didn't kneel down, along with the rest of the family, kind of stood guard. I don't know. Never was at that church in my life, but I remember that that's what used to be said. Twenty or twenty-five years ago one of the feud families caught a young man of nineteen out and killed him. Don't remember whether it was the Darnells and the Watsons or one of the other feuds. But anyway, this young man rode up a steamboat laying there at the time, and the first thing he saw was a whole gang of the enemy. He jumped down behind a woodpile, but they rode round and begun on him, he firing back, and they galloping and cavorting and yelling and banging away with all their might. Think he wounded a couple of them, but they closed in on him and chased him into the river. And as he swum along downstream, they followed along the bank and kept on shooting at him, and when he struck shore he was dead. Windy Marshall told me about it. He saw it. He was capped into the boat. Years ago the Darnells was so thinned out that the old man and his two sons concluded they'd leave the country. They started to take steamboat just above number ten. But the Watsons got wind of it, and they arrived just as the two young Darnells was walking up the companion way with their wives on their arms. The fight began then and they never got no further. Both of them killed. After that old Darnell got into trouble with the man that run the ferry, and the ferryman got the worst of it and died. But his friends shot old Darnell through and through, filled him full of bullets, and ended him. The country gentleman who told me these things had been reared in ease and comfort, was a man of good parts and was college-bred. His loose grammar was the fruit of careless habit, not ignorance. This habit among educated men in the West is not universal, but it is prevalent. Prevalent in the town, certainly, if not in the cities, and to a degree which one cannot help noticing and marveling at. I heard a Westerner who would be accounted a highly educated man in any country say, Never mind, don't make no difference anyway. A lifelong resident who was present heard it, but it made no impression upon her. She was able to recall the fact afterward when reminded of it, but she confessed that the words had not grated upon her ear at the time, a confession which suggests that if educated people can hear such blasphemous grammar from such a source and be unconscious of the deed, the crime must be tolerably common, so common that the general ear has become dulled by familiarity with it, and is no longer alert, no longer sensitive to such affronts. No one in the world speaks blemishless grammar. No one has ever written it. No one either in the world or out of it, taking the scriptures for evidence on the latter point. Therefore it would not be fair to exact grammatical perfection from the peoples of the valley, but they and all other peoples may justly be required to refrain from knowingly and purposefully debauching their grammar. I found the river greatly changed at island number ten. The island which I remembered was some three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide, heavily timbered, and lay near the Kentucky shore, within two hundred yards of it, I should say. Now, however, one had to hunt for it with a spy-glass. Nothing was left of it but an insignificant little tuft, and this was no longer near the Kentucky shore. It was clear over against the opposite shore, a mile away. In war times the island had been an important place for it commanded the situation, and being heavily fortified there was no getting by it. It lay between the upper and lower divisions of the Union forces and kept them separate, until a junction was finally affected across the Missouri neck of land, but the island being itself joined to that neck now, the wide river is without obstruction. In this region the river passes from Kentucky into Tennessee, back into Missouri, then back into Kentucky, and thence into Tennessee again. So a mile or two of Missouri sticks over into Tennessee. The town of New Madrid was looking very unwell, but otherwise unchanged from its former condition and aspect. Its blocks of frame houses were still grouped in the same old flat plain, and environed by the same old forests. It was as tranquil as formerly, and apparently had neither grown nor diminished in size. It was said that the recent high water had invaded it, and damaged its looks. This was surprising news, for in low water the river bank is very high there, fifty feet, and in my day an overflow had always been considered an impossibility. This present flood of 1882 will doubtless be celebrated in the river's history for several generations before a deluge of like magnitude shall be seen. It put all the unprotected low lands under water, from Cairo to the mouth. It broke down the levees in a great many places on both sides of the river, and in some regions south, when the flood was at its highest, the Mississippi was seventy miles wide. A number of lives were lost, and the destruction of property was fearful. The crops were destroyed, houses washed away, and shelterless men and cattle forced to take refuge on scattering elevations here and there in field and forest, and wait in peril and suffering until the boats put in commission by the national and local governments and by newspaper enterprise could come and rescue them. The properties of multitudes of people were underwater for months, and the poorer ones must have starved by the hundreds if sucker had not been promptly afforded. Footnote, for a detailed and interesting description of the great flood written on board of the New Orleans Times Democrats relief boat, see Appendix A. The water had been falling during a considerable time now, yet as a rule we found the banks still under water. We met two steamboats at New Madrid, two steamboats in sight at once, an infrequent spectacle now in the lonesome Mississippi. The loneliness of this solemn, stupendous flood is impressive and depressing. League after league, and still league after league, it pours its chocolate tied along between its solid forest walls, its almost untenanted shores, with seldom a sail or a moving object of any kind to disturb the surface and break the monotony of the blank watery solitude. And so the day goes, the night comes, and again the day, and still the same night after night and day after day, majestic, unchanging sameness of serenity, repose tranquility, lethargy, vacancy, symbol of eternity, realization of the heaven pictured by priest and prophet, and longed for by the good and thoughtless. Early after the war of 1812 tourists began to come to America, from England, scattering ones at first, then a sort of procession of them, a procession which kept up its plotting patient march through the land during many, many years. Each tourist took notes and went home and published a book, a book which was usually calm, truthful, reasonable, kind, but which seemed just the reverse to our tender progenitors. A glance at these tourist books shows us that in certain of its aspects the Mississippi has undergone no change since those strangers visited it, but remains today about as it was then. The emotions produced in those foreign breasts by these aspects were not all formed on one pattern, of course. They had to be various, along at first, because the earlier tourists were obliged to originate their emotions, whereas in older countries one can always borrow emotions from one's predecessors. And, mind you, emotions are among the toughest things in the world to manufacture out of whole cloth. It is easier to manufacture seven facts than one emotion. Captain Basil Hall, R.N., writing fifty-five years ago, says, Here I caught the first glimpse of the object I had so long wished to behold, and felt myself amply repaid at that moment for all the trouble I had experienced in coming so far, and stood looking at the river flowing past till it was too dark to distinguish anything. But it was not till I had visited the same spot a dozen times that I came to a right comprehension of the grandeur of the scene. Following are Mrs. Trollop's emotions. She is writing a few months later, in the same year, 1827, and is coming in at the mouth of the Mississippi. The first indication of our approach to land was the appearance of this mighty river pouring forth its muddy mass of waters, and mingling with the deep blue of the Mexican Gulf. I never beheld a scene so utterly desolate as this entrance of the Mississippi. Had Dante seen it, he might have drawn images of another Borgia from its horrors. One only object rears itself above the eddying waters. This is the mass of a vessel long since wrecked in attempting to cross the bar, and it still stands, a dismal witness of the destruction that has been, and a boding prophet of that which is to come. Emotions of Honourable Charles Augustus Murray, near St. Louis, seven years later. It is only when you ascend the mighty current for fifty or a hundred miles and use the eye of imagination as well as that of nature that you begin to understand all his might and majesty. You see him fertilizing a boundless valley, bearing along in his course the trophies of his thousand victories over the shattered forest, here carrying away large masses of soil with all their growth, and there forming islands, destined at some future period to be the residence of man. And while indulging in this prospect, it is then time for reflection to suggest that the current before you has flowed through two or three thousand miles and has yet to travel one thousand three hundred more before reaching its ocean destination. Receive now the emotions of Captain Marriott R. N., author of the Sea-Tales, writing in 1837, three years after Mr. Murray. Never perhaps, in the records of nations, was there an instance of a century of such unvarying and unmitigated crime as is to be collected from the history of the turbulent and blood-stained Mississippi. The stream itself appears as if appropriate for the deeds which have been committed. It is not like most rivers, beautiful to the sight, bestowing fertility in its course, not one that the eye loves to dwell upon as it sweeps along, nor can you wander upon its banks, or trust yourself without danger to its stream. It is a furious, rapid, desolating torrent loaded with alluvial soil, and few of those who are received into its waters ever rise again. Footnote. There was a foolish superstition of some little prevalence in that day that the Mississippi would neither buoy up a swimmer, nor permit a drowned person's body to rise to the surface, or can support themselves along upon its surface without assistance from some friendly log. It contains the coarsest and most un-eatable of fish, such as the catfish and such genus, and as you descend its banks are occupied with a fetid alligator, while the panther basks at its edge in the cane-brakes, almost impervious to man. Pouring its impetuous waters through wild tracks covered with trees of little value except for firewood, it sweeps down whole forests in its course which disappear into mulchuous confusion, whirled away by the stream now loaded with the masses of soil which nourished their roots, often blocking up and changing for a time the channel of the river, which, as if in anger at its being opposed, inundates and devastates the whole country round, and as soon as it forces its way through its former channel, plants in every direction the uprooted monarchs of the forest upon whose branches the bird will never again perch, or the raccoon, the opossum, or the squirrel climb, as traps to the adventurous navigators of its waters by steam, who, borne down upon these concealed dangers which pierce through the planks, very often have not time to steer for and gain the shore before they sink to the bottom. There are no pleasing associations connected with the great common sewer of the Western America, which pours out its mud into the Mexican Gulf, polluting the clear blue sea for many miles beyond its mouth. It is a river of desolation, and instead of reminding you, like other beautiful rivers, of an angel which has descended for the benefit of man, you imagine it a devil whose energies have been only overcome by the wonderful power of steam. It is pretty crude literature for a man accustomed to handling a pen, still, as a panorama of the emotions sent weltering through this noted visitor's breast by the aspect and traditions of the great common sewer. It has a value. A value, though marred in the matter of statistics by inaccuracies, for the catfish is a plenty good enough fish for anybody, and there are no panthers that are impervious to man. Later still comes Alexander McKay of the Middle Temple, Barrister-at-Law, with a better digestion and no catfish dinner aboard, and feels as follows. The Mississippi it was with indescribable emotions that I first felt myself afloat upon its waters. How often in my schoolboy dreams and in my waking visions afterwards had my imagination pictured to itself the lordly stream rolling with tumultuous currents through the boundless region to which it has given its name and gathering into itself, in its course to the ocean, the tributary waters of almost every latitude in the temperate zone. Here it was then in its reality, and I, at length, steaming against its tide, I looked upon it with that reverence with which everyone must regard a great feature of external nature. So much for the emotions. The tourists, one and all, remark upon the deep brooding loneliness and desolation of the vast river. Captain Basil Hall, who saw it at flood-stage, says, Sometimes we passed along distances of twenty or thirty miles without seeing a single habitation. An artist, in search of hints for a painting of the deluge, would here have found them in abundance. The first shall be last, etc. Just two hundred years ago the old original first and gallantist of all the foreign tourists, pioneer, head of the procession, ended his weary and tedious discovery voyage down the solemn stretches of the great river, LaSalle, whose name will last as long as the river itself shall last. We quote from Mr. Parkman. And now they neared their journey's end. On the sixth of April the river divided itself into three broad channels. LaSalle followed that of the west, and Dothrae that of the east, while Tanti took the middle passage. As he drifted down the turbid current between the low and marshy shores, the brackish water changed to brine, and the breeze grew fresh with the salt breath of the sea. Then the broad bosom of the great gulf opened on his sight, tossing its restless billows limitless, voiceless, lonely as when born of chaos, without a sail, without a sign of life. Then, on a spot of solid ground, LaSalle reared a column bearing the arms of France. The French men were mustered under arms, and while the New England Indians and their squaws looked on in wondering silence, they chanted the Tidaeum, the Exaudiat, and the Domini salvum facregem. Then, whilst the musketry volleyed and rejoicing shouts burst forth, the victorious discoverer planted the column, and made proclamation in a loud voice, taking formal possession of the river, and the vast countries watered by it, in the name of the king. The column bore this inscription. Louis le Grand, Roi de France, Ednavar, Rennes. 9th of April, 1682. Norlands intended to fittingly celebrate this present year the bicentennial anniversary of this illustrious event, but when the time came all her energies and surplus money were required in other directions, for the flood was upon the land then, making havoc and devastation everywhere. CHAPTER XXVIII Uncle Mumford unloads. All day we swung along down the river, and had the stream almost holy to ourselves. Formerly, at such a stage of the water, we should have passed acres of lumber rafts, and dozens of big coal barges, also occasional little trading-scows, peddling along from farm to farm, with the peddler's family on board. Possibly a random scow, bearing a humble hamlet and company on an itinerant dramatic trip. But these were all absent. Far along in the day we saw one steamboat, just one and no more. She was lying at rest in the shade, within the wooded mouth of the Albion River. The spy-glass revealed the fact that she was named for me, or he was named for me, whichever you prefer. As this was the first time I had ever encountered this species of honor, it seems excusable to mention it, and at the same time call the attention of the authorities to the tardiness of my recognition of it. After a big change in the river at Island Twenty-One, it was a very large island, and used to be out toward mid-stream. But it is joined fast to the main shore now, and has retired from business as an island. As we approached famous and formidable plum-point, darkness fell, but that was nothing to shudder about in these modern times. For now the national government has turned the Mississippi into a sort of two thousand-mile torch-light procession. In the head of every crossing, and in the foot of every crossing, the government has set up a clear burning lamp. You are never entirely in the dark now. There is always a beacon in sight, either before you, or behind you, or abreast. One might almost say that lamps have been squandered there. Dozens of crossings are lighted, which were not shoal when they were created, and have never been shoal since. Crossings so plain, too, and also so straight, that a steamboat can take herself through them without any help after she has been through once. Lamps in such places are, of course, not wasted. It is much more convenient and comfortable for a pilot to hold on them than on a spread of formless blackness that won't stay still. And money is saved to the boat at the same time, for she can, of course, make more miles with her rudder image ships than she can with it squared across her stern and holding her back. But this thing has knocked the romance out of piloting, to a large extent. It and some other things together have knocked all the romance out of it. For instance, the peril from snags is not now what it once was. The government's snag-boats go patrolling up and down, in these matter-of-fact days, pulling the river's teeth. They have rooted out all the old clusters which made many localities so formidable, and they allow no new ones to collect.  So was it also when you were groping your way through solidified darkness in a narrow chute. But all that is changed now. You flash out your electric light, transform night into day in the twinkling of an eye, and your perils and anxieties are at an end. Horace Bixby and George Ritchie have charted the crossings and laid out the courses by compass. They have invented a lamp to go with the chart, and have patented the whole. With these helps one may run in the fog now, with considerable security, and with a confidence unknown in the old days. With these abundant beacons the banishment of snags, plenty of daylight in a box, and ready to be turned on whenever needed, and a chart and compass to fight the fog with, piloting, at a good stage of water, is now nearly as safe and simple as driving stage, and is hardly more than three times as romantic. And now in these few days, these days of infinite change, the anchor-line have raised the captain above the pilot by giving him the bigger wages of the two. This was going far, but they have not stopped there. They have decreed that the pilot shall remain at his post and stand his watch clear through, whether the boat be under way or tied up to the shore. We that were once the aristocrats of the river can't go to bed now, as we used to do, and sleep while a hundred tons of freight are lugged aboard. No, we must sit in the pilot house, and keep awake, too. Verily we are being treated like a parcel of mates and engineers. The government has taken away the romance of our calling. The company has taken away its state and dignity. Plum Point looked as it had always looked by night, with the exception that now there were beacons to mark the crossings, and also a lot of other lights on the point, and along its shore. These latter glinting from the fleet of the United States River Commission, and from a village which the officials have built on the land for offices and for the employees of the service. The military engineers of the commission have taken upon their shoulders the job of making the Mississippi over again, a job transcended in size by only the original job of creating it. They are building wing-dams here and there to deflect the current, and dikes to confine it in narrower bounds, and other dikes to make it stay there, and for unnumbered miles along the Mississippi they are felling the timber front for fifty yards back, with the purpose of shaving the bank down to low water mark with a slant of a house-roof, and ballasting it with stones, and in many places they have protected the wasting shores with rows of piles. One who knows the Mississippi will promptly aver, not allowed but to himself, that ten thousand river commissions with the minds of the world at their back cannot tame that lawless stream, cannot curb it, or confine it, cannot say to it, go here, or go there, and make it obey, cannot save a shore which it has sentenced, cannot bar its path with an obstruction which it will not tear down, dance over, and laugh at, but a discreet man will not put these things into spoken words, for the West Point engineers have not their superiors any more. They know all that can be known of their abstruse science, and so, since they conceive that they can fetter and handcuff that river and boss him, it is but wisdom for the unscientific man to keep still, lilo, and wait till they do it. Captain Eads, with his jetties, has done a work at the mouth of the Mississippi which seemed clearly impossible, so we do not feel full confidence now to prophesy against like impossibilities. Otherwise one would pipe out and say the commission might as well bully the comets in their courses, and undertake to make them behave as try to bully the Mississippi into right and reasonable conduct. I consulted Uncle Mumford concerning this, and incognite matters, and I give here the result stenographically reported, and therefore to be relied on as being full and correct, except that I have here and there left out remarks which were addressed to the men, such as, where in blazes are you going with that barrel now? And which seemed to me to break the flow of the written statement, without compensating by adding to its information or its clearness. Not that I have ventured to strike out all such interjections. I have removed only those which were obviously irrelevant. Wherever one occurred which I felt any question about, I have judged it safest to let it remain. Uncle Mumford's Impressions Uncle Mumford said, as long as I have been mate of a steamboat thirty years, I have watched this river and studied it. Maybe I could have learnt more about it at West Point, but if I believe it, I wish I may be— What are you sucking your fingers there for? Color that gag of nails! Four years at West Point and plenty of books and schooling will learn a man a good deal, I reckon, but it won't learn him the river. You turn one of those little European rivers over to this commission, with its hard bottom and clear water, and it would just be a holiday job for them to wallet and pilot and dyke it and tame it down and boss it around and make it go wherever they wanted it to, and stay where they put it, and do just as they said every time. But this ain't that kind of river. They have started in here with big confidence and the best intentions in the world, but they are going to get left. What does Ecclesiastes 7.13 say?  Now, you look at their methods once. They are at Devil's Island, in the upper river. They wanted the water to go one way, the water wanted to go another. So they put up a stone wall. But what does this river care for a stone wall? When it got ready it just bulged through it. Maybe they can build another that will stay, that is, up there, but not down here they can't. Down here in the lower river they drive some pegs to turn the water away from the shore and stop it from slicing off the bank. Very well. Don't it go straight over and cut somebody else's bank? Certainly. Are they going to peg all the banks? Why, they could buy ground and build a new Mississippi cheaper. They are pegging bulletin' toehead now. They won't do any good. If the river has got a mortgage on that island it will foreclose. Sure, pegs or no pegs. Away down yonder they have driven two rows of piles straight through the middle of a dry bar half a mile long, which is forty foot out of the water when the river is low. What do you reckon that is for?  And just look at what they are trying to do down there at Millican's Bend. There's been a cut-off in that section and Vicksburg is left out in the cold. It's a country town now. The river strikes in below it and a boat can't go up to the town except in high water. Well, they are going to build wing-dams in the Bend opposite the foot of 103 and throw the water over and cut off the foot of the island and plow down into an old ditch where the river used to be in ancient times and they think they can persuade the water around that way and get it to strike in above Vicksburg as it used to do and fetch the town back into the world again. That is, they are going to take this whole Mississippi and twist it around and make it run several miles upstream. Well, you've got to admire men that deal in ideas of that size and can tote them around without crutches, but you haven't got to believe they can do such miracles, have you?  I reckon the safe way, where a man can afford it, is to copper the operation and at the same time buy enough property in Vicksburg to square you up in case they win. Government is doing a deal for the Mississippi now, spending loads of money on her. When there used to be four thousand steam boats and ten thousand acres of coal barges and rafts and trading scous, there wasn't a lantern from St. Paul to New Orleans and the snags were thicker than bristles on a hog's back. And now when there's three dozen steam boats and nary barge or raft government has snatched out all the snags and lit up the shores like Broadway and a boat's as safe on the river as she'd be in heaven. And I reckon that by the time there ain't any boats left at all, the Commission will have the old thing all reorganized and dredged out and fenced in and tidied up to a degree that will make navigation just simply perfect and absolutely safe and profitable.  Going to be a year getting that hog's out of shore? During our trip to New Orleans and back we had many conversations with Rivermen, planters, journalists, and officers of the River Commission with conflicting and confusing results. To it, one, some believed in the Commission's scheme to arbitrarily and permanently confine and thus deepen the channel, serve threatened shores, etc. Two, some believed that the Commission's money ought to be spent only on building and repairing the great system of levees. Three, some believed that the higher you build your levee, the higher the river's bottom will rise, and that consequently the levee system is a mistake. Four, some believed in the scheme to relieve the river in flood time by turning its surplus waters off into Lake Bourne, etc. Five, some believed in the scheme of northern lake reservoirs to replenish the Mississippi in low water seasons. Wherever you find a man down there who believes in one of these theories you may turn to the next man and frame your talk upon the hypothesis that he does not believe in that theory, and after you have had experience you do not take this course doubtfully or hesitatingly, but with the confidence of a dying murderer, converted one, I mean, for you will have come to know with a deep and restful certainty that you are not going to meet two people sick of the same theory one right after the other. No, there will always be one or two with the other diseases along between. And as you proceed you will find out one or two other things. You will find out that there is no distemper of the lot, but is contagious. And you cannot go where it is without catching it. You may vaccinate yourself with deterrent facts as much as you please. It will do no good. It will seem to take, but it doesn't. The moment you rub against any one of those theorists, make up your mind that it is time to hang out your yellow flag. Yes, you are his sure victim. Yet his work is not all to your hurt, only part of it. For he is like your family physician who comes and cures the mumps and leaves the scarlet fever behind. If your man is a lake born relief theorist, for instance, he will exhale a cloud of deadly facts and statistics which will lay you out with that disease, sure, but at the same time he will cure you of any other of the five theories that may have previously got into your system. I have had all the five and had them bad, but ask me not, in mournful numbers, which one racked me hardest or which one numbered the biggest sick list for I do not know. In truth, no one can answer the latter question. Mississippi improvement is a mighty topic down yonder. Every man on the river banks south of Cairo talks about it every day, during such moments as he is able to spare from talking about the war. And each of the several chief theories has its host of zealous partisans. But as I have said, it is not possible to determine which cause numbers the most recruits. All were agreed upon one point, however, if Congress would make a sufficient appropriation, a colossal benefit would result. Very well. Since then the appropriation has been made, possibly a sufficient one, certainly not too large a one. Let us hope that the prophecy will be amply fulfilled. One thing will be easily granted by the reader that an opinion from Mr. Edward Atkinson upon any vast national commercial matter comes as near ranking as authority as can the opinion of any individual in the union. What he has to say about Mississippi River improvement will be found in the appendix. Footnote Z. Appendix B. Sometimes half a dozen figures will reveal, as with a lightning flash, the importance of a subject which ten thousand labored words with the same purpose in view had left at last but dim and uncertain. Here is a case of the sort, paragraph from the Cincinnati commercial. The tow-boat Joseph B. Williams is on her way to New Orleans with a tow of thirty-two barges containing six hundred thousand bushels, seventy-six pounds to the bushel, of coal exclusive of her own fuel, being the largest tow ever taken to New Orleans or anywhere else in the world. Her freight-bill at three cents a bushel amounts to eighteen thousand dollars. It would take eighteen hundred cars of three hundred and thirty-three bushels to the car to transport this amount of coal. At ten dollars per ton or one hundred dollars per car, which would be a fair price for the distance by rail, the freight-bill would amount to one hundred and eighty thousand dollars or one hundred and sixty-two thousand more by rail than by river. The tow will be taken from Pittsburgh to New Orleans in fourteen or fifteen days. It would take one hundred trains of eighteen cars to the train to transport this one tow of six hundred thousand bushels of coal and even if it made the usual speed of fast freight lines, it would take one whole summer to put it through by rail. When a river in good condition can enable one to save one hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars and a whole summer's time on a single cargo, the wisdom of taking measures to keep the river in good condition is made plain to even the un-commercial mind. CHAPTER XXIX A FEW SPECIMEN BRICKS We passed through the Plum Point region, turned Craighead's point, and glided unchallenged by what was once the formidable Fort Pillow, memorable because of the massacre perpetrated there during the war. Massacres are sprinkled with some frequency through the histories of several Christian nations, but this is almost the only one that can be found in American history. Perhaps it is the only one which rises to size correspondent to that huge and somber title. We have the Boston Massacre, where two or three people were killed, but we must bunch Anglo-Saxon history together to find the fellow to the Fort Pillow tragedy, and doubtless even then we must travel back to the days and performances of Kurt de Leon, that fine hero, before we accomplish it. More of the river's freaks. In times past the channel used to strike above Island 37 by Brandywine Bar, and down towards Island 39. Afterward changed its course and went from Brandywine down through Vogelman's chute in the Devil's Elbow to Island 39, part of this course reversing the old order. The river running up four or five miles instead of down, and cutting off throughout some fifteen miles of distance. This in 1876. All that region is now called Centennial Island. There is a tradition that Island 37 was one of the principal abiding places of the once celebrated Merle's Gang. This was a colossal combination of robbers, horse thieves, negro-stealers, and counterfeiters engaged in business along the river some fifty or sixty years ago. While our journey across the country towards St. Louis was in progress, we had had no end of Jesse James and his stirring history, for he had just been assassinated by an agent of the Governor of Missouri, and was in consequence occupying a good deal of space in the newspapers. Cheap histories of him were for sale by train boys. According to these he was the most marvelous creature of his kind that had ever existed. It was a mistake. Merle was his equal in boldness, in pluck, in rapacity, in cruelty, brutality, heartlessness, treachery, and in general and comprehensive vileness and shamelessness, and very much his superior in some larger aspects. James was a retail rascal. Merle wholesale. James' modest genius dreamed of no loftier flight than the planning of raids upon cars, coaches, and country banks. Merle projected negro insurrections and the capture of Norlins, and furthermore, on occasion, this Merle could go into a pulpit and edify the congregation. What are James and his half dozen vulgar rascals compared with this stately old-time criminal, with his sermons, his meditated insurrections and city captures, and his majestic following of ten hundred men sworn to do his evil will. Here is a paragraph or two concerning this big operator from a now forgotten book which was published half a century ago. He appears to have been a most dexterous as well as consummate villain. When he travelled his usual disguise was that of an itinerant preacher, and it is said that his discourses were very soul-moving. Seeing the hearers so much that they forgot to look after their horses, which were carried away by his Confederates while he was preaching. But the stealing of horses in one state, and selling them in another, was but a small portion of their business. The most lucrative was the enticing slaves to run away from their masters that they might sell them in another quarter. This was arranged as follows. They would tell a negro that if he would run away from his master and allow them to sell him, he should receive a portion of the money paid for him, and that upon his return to them a second time they would send him to a free state where he would be safe. The poor wretches complied with this request hoping to obtain money and freedom. They would be sold to another master and run away again to their employers. Sometimes they would be sold in this manner three or four times until they had realized three or four thousand dollars by them. But as, after this, there was fear of detection, the usual custom was to get rid of the only witness that could be produced against them, which was the negro himself, by murdering him and throwing his body into the Mississippi. Even if it was established that they had stolen a negro before he was murdered, they were always prepared to evade punishment, for they concealed a negro who had run away until he was advertised and a reward offered to any man who would catch him. An advertisement of this kind warrants the person to take the property afound, and then the negro becomes a property in trust, when, therefore, they sold a negro, it only became a breach of trust not stealing. And for a breach of trust the owner of the property can only have redressed by a civil action which was useless as the damages were never paid. It may be inquired how it was that Merle escaped lynch law under such circumstances. This will be easily understood when it is stated that he had more than a thousand sworn Confederates already at a moment's notice to support any of the gang who might be in trouble. The names of all the principal Confederates of Merle were obtained from himself in a manner which I shall presently explain. The gang was composed of two classes, the heads or counsel, as they were called, who planned and concerted, but seldom acted. They amounted to about four hundred. The other class were the active agents and were termed strikers, and amounted to about six hundred and fifty. These were the tools in the hands of the others. They ran all the risk and received but a small portion of the money. They were in the power of the leaders of the gang who would sacrifice them at any time by handing them over to justice or sinking their bodies in the Mississippi. The general rendezvous of this gang of miscreants was on the Arkansas side of the river where they concealed their Negroes in the morasses and cane-breaks. The depredations of this extensive combination were severely felt, but so well were their plans arranged that although Merle, who was always active, was everywhere suspected, there was no proof to be obtained. It so happened, however, that a young man of the name of Stuart, who was looking after two slaves which Merle had decoyed away, fell in with him and obtained his confidence, took the oath, and was admitted into the gang as one of the general counsel. By this means all was discovered, for Stuart turned traitor, although he had taken the oath, and having obtained every information, exposed the whole concern, the names of all the parties, and finally succeeded in bringing home sufficient evidence against Merle to procure his conviction and sentence to the penitentiary. Merle was sentenced to fourteen years in prisonment. So many people who were supposed to be honest and bore a respectable name in the different states were found to be among the list of the grand counsel, as published by Stuart, that every attempt was made to throw discredit upon his assertions. His character was vilified, and more than one attempt was made to assassinate him. He was obliged to quit the southern states in consequence. It is, however, now well ascertained to have been all true. And although some blame Mr. Stuart for having violated his oath, they no longer attempt to deny that his revelations were correct. I will quote one or two portions of Merle's confessions to Mr. Stuart made to him when they were journeying together. I ought to have observed that the ultimate intentions of Merle and his associates were, by his own account, on a very extended scale, having no less an object in view than raising the blacks against the whites, taking possession of and plundering Norlands, and making themselves possessors of the territory. The following are a few extracts. I collected all my friends about Norlands at one of our friends' houses in that place, and we sat in council three days before we got all our plans to our notion. We then determined to undertake the rebellion at every hazard and make as many friends as we could for that purpose. Every man's business being assigned him, I started to natches on foot, having sold my horse in Norlands, with the intention of stealing another after I started. I walked four days, and no opportunity offered for me to get a horse. The fifth day, about twelve, I had become tired, and stopped at a creek to get some water and rest a little. While I was sitting on a log, looking down the road the way that I had come, a man came in sight riding on a good-looking horse. The very moment I saw him, I was determined to have his horse, if he was in the garb of a traveller. He rode up, and I saw from his equipage that he was a traveller. I arose and drew an elegant rifle-pistol on him, and ordered him to dismount. He did so, and I took his horse by the bridle and pointed down the creek, and ordered him to walk before me. He went a few hundred yards and stopped. I hitched his horse, and then made him undress himself, all to his shirt and drawers, and ordered him to turn his back to me.  I told him I had no time to hear him pray.  I ripped open his belly and took out his entrails, and sunk him in the creek. I then searched his pockets and found four hundred dollars and thirty-seven cents, and a number of papers that I did not take time to examine. I sunk the pocket-book, and papers, and his hat in the creek. His boots were brand new and fitted me gentilely, and I put them on and sunk my old shoes in the creek to a tone for them. I rolled up his clothes and put them into his portmanteau, as they were brand new cloth of the best quality. I mounted as fine a horse as ever I straddled, and directed my course for naches in much better style than I had been for the last five days. Myself and a fellow by the name of Crenshaw gathered four good horses and started for Georgia. We got in company with a young South Carolinian just before we got to Cumberland Mountain, and Crenshaw soon knew all about his business. He had been to Tennessee to buy a drove of hogs, but when he got there pork was dearer than he calculated, and he declined purchasing. We concluded he was a prize. Crenshaw winked at me. I understood his idea. Crenshaw had traveled the road before, but I never had. We had traveled several miles on the mountain when he passed near a great precipice. Just before we passed it, Crenshaw asked me for my whip, which had a pound of lead in the butt. I handed it to him, and he rode up by the side of the South Carolinian, and gave him a blow in the side of the head and tumbled him from his horse. We lit from our horses and fingered his pockets. We got twelve hundred and sixty-two dollars. Crenshaw said he knew a place to hide him, and he gathered him under his arms and eye by his feet, and we conveyed him to a deep crevice in the brow of the precipice, and tumbled him into it, and he went out of sight. We then tumbled in his saddle and took his horse with us, which was worth two hundred dollars. We were detained a few days, and during that time our friend went to a little village in the neighborhood and saw the Negro advertised, a Negro in our possession, and a description of the two men of whom he had been purchased and giving his suspicions of the men. It was rather squally times, but any port in a storm. We took the Negro that night on the bank of a creek which runs by the farm of our friend, and Crenshaw shot him through the head. We took out his entrails and sunk him in the creek. He had sold the other Negro the third time on Arkansas River for upwards of five hundred dollars, and then stole him and delivered him into the hand of his friend, who conducted him to a swamp, and veiled the tragic scene, and got the last gleaning and sacred pledge of secrecy. As a game of that kind will not do unless it ends in a mystery to all but the fraternity. He sold the Negro first and last for nearly two thousand dollars, and then put him forever out of the reach of all pursuers, and they can never graze him unless they can find the Negro, and that they cannot do, for his carcass has fed many a tortoise and catfish before this time, and the frogs have sung this many a long day to the silent repose of his skeleton. We were approaching Memphis, in front of which city and witnessed by its people, was fought the most famous of the river-battles of the Civil War. Two men whom I had served under in my river days took part in that fight. Mr. Bixby had piloted the Union Fleet, and Montgomery, Commodore of the Confederate Fleet. Both saw a great deal of active service during the war, and achieved high reputations for pluck and capacity. As we neared Memphis, we began to cast about for an excuse to stay with the gold dust to the end of her course, Vicksburg. We were so pleasantly situated that we did not wish to make a change. I had an errand of considerable importance to do at Napoleon, Arkansas, but perhaps I could manage it without quitting the gold dust. I said as much, so we decided to stick to present quarters. The boat was to tarry at Memphis till ten the next morning. It is a beautiful city, nobly situated on a commanding bluff overlooking the river. The streets are straight and spacious, though not paved in a way to incite distempered admiration. No, the admiration must be reserved for the town's sewerage system, which is called Perfect, a recent reform, however, for it was just the other way up to a few years ago, a reform resulting from the lesson taught by a desolating visitation of the yellow fever. In those awful days the people were swept off by hundreds, by thousands, and so great was the reduction caused by flight and by death together that the population was diminished three-fourths, and so remained for a time. Business stood nearly still, and the streets bore an empty Sunday aspect. Here is a picture of Memphis at that disastrous time, drawn by a German tourist who seems to have been an eyewitness of the scenes which he describes. It is from Chapter Seven of his book just published in Leipzig, Mississippi Farten von Ernst von Hessewarteg. In August the yellow fever had reached its extremest height. Daily hundreds fell a sacrifice to the terrible epidemic. The city was become a mighty graveyard. Two-thirds of the population had deserted the place, and only the poor, the aged, and the sick remained behind. A sure prey for the insidious enemy.  Often several lay dead in a single house. From the windows hung black crepe.  Fearful evil! In the briefest space it struck down and swept away even the most vigorous victim. A slight indisposition, then an hour of fever, then the hideous delirium, then the yellow death.  Food failed, meat spoiled in a few hours in the fetid and pestiferous air, and turned black. Fearful clamors issue from many houses, then after a season they cease, and all is still. Nobles, self-sacrificing men come with the coffin, nail it up and carry it away to the graveyard. In the night stillness reigns, only the physicians and the herces hurry through the streets, and out of the distance, at intervals, comes the muffled thunder of the railway train which, with the speed of the wind, and as if hunted by furies, flies by the pest-ridden city without halting. But there is life enough there now. The population exceeds forty thousand and is augmenting, and trade is in a flourishing condition. We drove about the city, visited the park and the sociable horde of squirrels there, saw the fine residences, rose clad and, in other ways, enticing to the eye, and got a good breakfast at the hotel. A thriving place is the good Samaritan city of the Mississippi, has a great wholesome jobbing trade, foundries, machine shops, and manufactures of wagons, carriages, and cotton seed oil, and is shortly to have cotton mills and elevators. Her cotton receipts reached five hundred thousand bales last year, an increase of sixty thousand over the year before. Out from her healthy commercial heart issue five trunk lines of railway and a sixth is being added. This is a very different Memphis from the one which the vanished and unremembered procession of foreign tourists used to put into their books long time ago. In the days of the now forgotten but once renowned and vigorously hated Mrs. Trollop, Memphis seems to have consisted mainly of one long street of log houses with some outlying cabins sprinkled around rearward toward the woods, and now and then a pig and no end of mud. That was fifty-five years ago. She stopped at the hotel. Plainly it was not the one which gave us our breakfast. She says, The table was laid for fifty persons and was nearly full. They ate in perfect silence, and with such astonishing rapidity that their dinner was over literally before ours was begun. The only sounds heard were those produced by the knives and forks, with the unceasing chorus of coughing, etc. Coughing, etc. The etc. stands for an unpleasant word there, a word which she does not always charitably cover up, but sometimes Prince. You will find it in the following description of a steamboat dinner which she ate in company with a lot of aristocratic planters, wealthy, well-born, ignorant swells they were, tinseled with the usual harmless military and judicial titles of that old day of cheap shams and windy pretence. The total want of all the usual courtesies of the table, the voracious rapidity with which the vians were seized and devoured, the strange uncouth phrases and pronunciation, the loathsome spitting from the contamination of which it was absolutely impossible to protect our dresses, the frightful manner of feeding with their knives till the whole blade seemed to enter into the mouth, and the still more frightful manner of cleaning the teeth afterwards with a pocket-knife soon forced us to feel that we were not surrounded by the generals, kernels, and majors of the old world, and that the dinner-hour was to be anything rather than an hour of enjoyment. CHAPTER XXXVIII It was a big river below Memphis, banks brimming full everywhere, and very frequently more than full, the waters pouring out over the land, flooding the woods and fields for miles into the interior, and in places to a depth of fifteen feet, signs all about of men's hard work gone to ruin, and all to be done over again, with straightened means and weakened courage, a melancholy picture and a continuous one, hundreds of miles of it. Sometimes the beacon light stood in water three feet deep, in the edge of dense forests which extended for miles without farm, wood-yard, clearing, or break of any kind, which meant that the keeper of the light must come in a skiff a great distance to discharge his trust, and often in desperate weather. Yet I was told that the work is faithfully performed in all weathers, and not always by men, sometimes by women, if the man is sick or absent. The government furnishes oil and pays ten or fifteen dollars a month for the lighting and tending. A government boat distributes oil and pays wages once a month. The Ship Island region was as woodsy and tenetless as ever. The island has ceased to be an island, has joined itself compactly to the main shore, and wagons travel now where the steam-boats used to navigate. No signs left of the wreck of the Pennsylvania. Some farmer will turn up her bones with his plow one day, no doubt, and be surprised. We were getting down now into the migrating Negro region. These poor people could never travel when they were slaves, so they make up for the privation now. They stay on a plantation till the desire to travel seizes them. Then they pack up, hail a steam boat, and clear out. Not for any particular place. No, nearly any place will answer. They only want to be moving. The amount of money on hand will answer the rest of the conundrum for them. If it will take them fifty miles, very well, let it be fifty. If not, a shorter flight will do. During a couple of days we frequently answered these hails. Sometimes there was a group of high-water-stained tumble-down cabins, populous with colored folk, and no whites visible, with grassless patches of dry ground here and there. A few felled trees, with skeleton cattle, mules, and horses eating the leaves and gnawing the bark. No other food for them in the flood-waste land. Sometimes there was a single lonely landing-cabin. Near it the colored family that had hailed us, little and big, old and young, roosting on the scant pile of household goods, these consisting of a rusty gun, some bed-ticks, chests, tinware, stools, a crippled-looking glass, a venerable arm-chair, and six or eight base-born and spiritless yellow curves attached to the family by strings. They must have their dogs. Can't go without their dogs. Yet the dogs are never willing. They always object. So, one after another, in ridiculous procession, they are dragged aboard, all four feet braced and sliding along the stage, head likely to be pulled off. But the tugger marching determinedly forward, bending to his work, with the rope over his shoulder for better purchase. Sometimes a child is forgotten and left on the bank, but never a dog. The usual river gossip going on in the pilot-house, Island No. 63, an island with a lovely chute, or passage, behind it in the former times. They said Jesse Jameson, in the Skylark, had a visiting pilot with him one trip. A poor old broken-down, superannuated fellow left him at the wheel at the foot of 63 to run off the watch. The ancient mariner went up through the chute and down the river outside, and up the chute and down the river again, and again and again and handed the boat over to the relieving pilot at the end of three hours of honest endeavor at the same old foot of the island where he had originally taken the wheel. A darky on shore who had observed the boat go by about thirteen times said, Clarity gracious, I wouldn't be surprised if there's a whole line of them Skylarks. An anecdote illustrative of influence of reputation in the changing of opinion. The eclipse was renowned for her swiftness. One day she passed along. An old darky on shore, absorbed in his own matters, did not notice what steamer it was. Presently someone asked, Any boat gone up? Yes, ah! Was she going fast? Oh, so so, loafing along. Now, do you know what boat that was? No, sir. Why, uncle, that was the eclipse. No, is that so? Well, I bet it was, because she just went by here as sparkling. Piece of history illustrative of the violent style of some of the people down along here. During the early weeks of high water, A's fence rails washed down on B's ground, and B's rails washed up in the eddy and landed on A's ground. A said, Let the thing remain so. I will use your rails, and you use mine. But B objected, wouldn't have it so. One day A came down on B's ground to get his rails.  A said, I'm not armed. So B, who wished to do only what was right, threw down his revolver, then pulled a knife, and cut A's throat all round, but gave his principal attention to the front, and so failed to sever the jugular. Struggling around, A managed to get his hands on the discarded revolver, and shot B dead with it, and recovered from his own injuries. Further gossip, after which everybody went below to get afternoon coffee and left me at the wheel alone, something presently reminded me of our last hour in St. Louis, part of which I spent on this boat's hurricane deck aft. I was joined there by a stranger who dropped into conversation with me, a brisk young fellow who said he was born in a town in the interior of Wisconsin, and had never seen a steamboat until a week before. Also said that, on the way down from La Cross, he had inspected and examined his boat so diligently, and with such passionate interest, that he had mastered the whole thing from stem to rudder-blade. Asked me where I was from, I answered New England. Oh, a yank! said he, and went chatting straight along without waiting for a scent or denial. He immediately proposed to take me all over the boat and tell me the names of her different parts, and teach me their uses. Before I could enter protest or excuse, he was already rattling glibly away at his benevolent work, and when I perceived that he was misnaming the things and inhospitably amusing himself at the expense of an innocent stranger from a far country, I held my peace and let him have his way. He gave me a world of misinformation, and the further he went, the wider his imagination expanded, and the more he enjoyed his cruel work of deceit.  I stayed faithfully by him until his comedy was finished. Then he remarked that he had undertaken to learn me all about a steamboat and had done it, but that if he had overlooked anything, just ask him, and he would supply the lack. Nothing about this boat that you don't know the name of or the purpose of, you come to me and I'll tell you," I said I would, and took my departure. Disappeared and approached him from another quarter once he could not see me. There he sat all alone, doubling himself up and writhing this way and that, in the throes of unappeasable laughter. He must have made himself sick, for he was not publicly visible afterward for several days. Meantime the episode dropped out of my mind. The thing that reminded me of it now, when I was alone at the wheel, was the spectacle of this young fellow standing in the pilot-house door, with a knob in his hand, silently and severely inspecting me. I don't know when I have seen anybody look so injured as he did. He did not say anything, simply stood there and looked, reproachfully looked and pondered. Finally he shut the door and started away, halted on the Texas a minute, came slowly back and stood in the door again, with that grieved look in his face. Gazed upon me a while in meek rebuke, then said, You let me learn you all about a steamboat, didn't you? Yes, I confessed. Yes, you did, didn't you? Yes? You are the feller that that, language failed, pause, impotent struggle for further words, then he gave it up, choked out a deep, strong oath, and departed for good. Afterward I saw him several times below during the trip, but he was cold, would not look at me. Idiot, if he had not been in such a sweat to play his witless practical joke upon me in the beginning, I would have persuaded his thoughts into some other direction and saved him from committing that wanton and silly impoliteness. I had myself called with the four o'clock watch, mornings, for one cannot see too many summer sunrises on the Mississippi. They are enchanting. First there is the eloquence of silence, for a deep hush broods everywhere. Next there is the haunting sense of loneliness, isolation, remoteness from the worry and bustle of the world. The dawn creeps in stealthily. The solid walls of black forest soften to gray, and vast stretches of the river open up and reveal themselves. The water is glass smooth, gives off spectral little wreaths of white mist, there is not the faintest breath of wind, nor stir of leaf. The tranquility is profound and infinitely satisfying. Then a bird pipes up, another follows, and soon the pipings develop into a jubilant riot of music. You see none of the birds, you simply move through the atmosphere of song which seems to sing itself. When the light has become a little stronger, you have one of the fairest and softest pictures imaginable. You have the intense green of the mast and crowded foliage nearby.  Upon the next projecting cape, a mile off or more, the tint has lightened to the tender young green of spring. The cape beyond that one has almost lost color, and the further one, miles away under the horizon, sleeps upon the water a mere dim vapor and hardly separable from the sky above it and about it. And all this stretch of water is a mirror, and you have the shadowy reflections of the leafage and the curving shores and the receding capes pictured in it. Well, that is all beautiful, soft and rich and beautiful. And when the sun gets well up, and distributes a pink flush here, and a powder of gold yonder, and a purple haze where it will yield the best effect, you grant that you have seen something that is worth remembering. We had the Kentucky Bend country in the early morning, seen of a strange and tragic accident in the old times. Captain Poe had a small stern-wheel boat for years, the home of himself and his wife. One night the boat struck a snag in the head of Kentucky Bend and sank with astonishing suddenness. Water already well above the cabin floor when the captain got aft, so he cut into his wife's stateroom from above with an axe. She was asleep in the upper berth, at the roof of Flimsier One than was supposed. The first blow crashed down through the rotten boards and clove her skull. This bend is all filled up now, result of a cut-off, and the same agent has taken the great and once much-frequented walnut bend and set it away back in a solitude far from the accustomed track of passing steamers. Helena we visited, and also a town I had not heard of before, its being of recent berth, Arkansas City. It was born of a railway. The Little Rock, Mississippi River, and Texas Railroad touches the river there. We asked a passenger who belonged there what sort of a place it was. Well, said he, after considering and with the air of one who wishes to take time and be accurate, it's a hell of a place. A description which was photographic for exactness. There were several rows and clusters of shabby frame houses, and a supply of mud sufficient to insure the town against a famine in that article for a hundred years. For the overflow had but lately subsided. There were stagnant ponds in the streets, here and there, and a dozen rude scows were scattered about, lying aground wherever they happened to have been, when the waters drained off and people could do their visiting and shopping on foot once more. Still, it is a thriving place, with a rich country behind it, an elevator in front of it, and also a fine big mill for the manufacture of cotton seed oil. I had never seen this kind of mill before. Cotton seed was comparatively valueless in my time, but it is worth twelve or thirteen dollars a ton now, and none of it is thrown away. The oil made from it is colorless, tasteless, and almost if not entirely odorless. It is claimed that it can, by proper manipulation, be made to resemble and perform the office of any and all oils, and be produced at a cheaper rate than the cheapest of the originals. Sagacious people shipped it to Italy, doctored it, labeled it, and brought it back as olive oil. This trade grew to be so formidable that Italy was obliged to put a prohibitory impulse upon it to keep it from working serious injury to her oil industry. Helena occupies one of the prettiest situations on the Mississippi. Her perch is the last, the southernmost group of hills which one sees on that side of the river. In its normal condition it is a pretty town, but the flood, or possibly the seepage, had lately been ravaging it. Whole streets of houses had been invaded by the muddy water, and the outsides of the buildings were still belted with a broad stain extending upwards from the foundations. Stranded and discarded scous lay all about. Plank sidewalks on stilts four feet high were still standing. The board sidewalks on the ground level were loose and ruinous. A couple of men trotting along them could make a blind man think a cavalry charge was coming. Everywhere the mud was black and deep, and in many places, malaria pools of stagnant water were standing. A Mississippi inundation is the next most wasting and desolating infliction to a fire. We had an enjoyable time here, on this sunny Sunday, two full hours liberty ashore while the boat discharged freight. In the back streets but few white people were visible, but there were plenty of colored folk, mainly women and girls, and almost without exception a pollstered in bright new clothes of swell and elaborate style and cut, a glaring and hilarious contrast to the mournful mud and the pensive puddles. Helena is the second town in Arkansas in point of population which is placed at five thousand. The country about it is exceptionally productive. Helena has a good cotton trade, handles from forty to sixty thousand bales annually. She has a large lumber and grain commerce, has a foundry, oil mills, machine shops and wagon factories. In brief has one million dollars invested in manufacturing industries. She has two railways and is the commercial center of a broad and prosperous region. Her gross receipts of money annually from all sources are placed by the New Orleans Times Democrat at four million dollars.


U.S. Empire views Ukrainians and Russians as lab rats for weapons testing. A surprisingly frank article by The New York Times titled Western Allies Look to Ukraine as a Testing Ground for Weapons describes how the Imperial War Machine is capitalizing on the U.S. proxy war to test its weapons for future use. Ukraine has become a testing ground for state-of-the-art weapons and information systems and new ways to use them, that Western political officials and military commanders predict could shape warfare for generations to come, writes The New York Times' Laura Jakes. Jakes writes that new advances in technology and training in Ukraine are being closely monitored for the ways they are changing the face of the fight. These new technological advancements include an information system known as Delta, as well as remote-controlled boats, anti-drone weapons known as sky wipers, and an updated version of an air defense system built in Germany that the German military itself has yet to use. A former Lithuanian president is quoted as saying, we're learning in Ukraine how to fight and we're learning how to use our NATO equipment, adding, it is shameful for me because Ukrainians are paying with their lives for these exercises for us.  At some point the New York Times article was retitled from Western allies look to Ukraine as a testing ground for weapons to the slightly less obvious for Western weapons the Ukraine war is a beta test. News that the West is using Ukraine to test weapons systems for future wars aligns with recent comments by the commander of the U.S. nuclear arsenal that the proxy war is a test run for a much bigger conflict that's on its way. The Ukraine crisis that we're in right now, this is just the warm-up, said U.S. stratcom head Charles Richard at a naval conference earlier this month. The big one is coming and it isn't going to be very long before we're going to get tested in ways that we haven't been tested in a long time. So in addition to being used to advance long-standing U.S. geostrategic objectives, apparently this war is also being used to sharpen the Imperial War Machines Clause for a looming hot war with China and or Russia. The U.S. would certainly have an advantage in military test runs over the years in such a conflict. As an aside, it is probably worth noting that all the testing of new Western weapons technology would likely explain reports from Ukrainian astronomers that the skies over Kiev have been swarming with unidentified flying objects, UFOs. The aforementioned New York Times article quotes Ukrainian Vice Prime Minister Mikhail Fedorov as saying that the weapons testing he's seen has convinced him that the wars of the future will be about maximum drones and minimal humans. One of the many reasons the U.S. and its complex network of allies, partners, and assets are always fighting so many wars is because new weapons technology needs to be tested in battle before it can be deemed effective. What this means in practice is using human bodies as test subjects, the way a scientist uses laboratory rats or guinea pigs. The U.S. centralized empire pretends to care about Ukrainian lives, but in reality it only cares about them to the extent that a researcher cares about his lab rats, and for exactly the same reason. What could be more sinister than that? Well, the agendas that they are running those tests in preparation for, I suppose.


Saint Lucia has joined the rest of the Commonwealth in paying respect to the royal family after the passing of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II on 8th September 2022. Her reign of 70 years, 214 days, made her the longest serving British monarch and the longest-recorded female head of state in history. Acting Governor-General His Excellency Erol Charles made an official statement on 9th September 2022. Her Majesty as head of the Commonwealth and Queen of Saint Lucia has served us with great pride and dignity and will be surely missed. The government and people of Saint Lucia joined the rest of the world in mourning the passing of Her Majesty. We extend our deepest condolences to His Royal Highness King Charles III and the royal family on this very solemn occasion. The official period of mourning comments on 9th September 2022 with a 96-concrete by the Royal Saint Lucia Police Force at 5.30pm on the premises of the Covenant House. Major Cyril Saltibas, in the Comp to the Governor-General, elaborated on the events which will occur during the 10-day period of mourning. Thereafter, the condolence book will be opened at Government House on Monday for members of Parliament and the diplomatic corps on Tuesday and the days following it will be at the House of Parliament for members of the public. We will end the mourning period the day after Her Majesty is buried with the return of our flags to full mask. Only white flowers are accepted for the occasion of the passing of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. From the Government Information Service, Helmeti Mark reporting.