St. Lawrence, three hundred years ago, came the mariner of St.
Malo,--turning in from the sea till his straining eyes beheld
on both sides land, and planted the lilies of France. Now it
is the boundary line of empires. Those green banks on the
other side are a foreign country, and for the first time I am
not monarch of all I survey. That fine little city, with
stately trees towering from the midst of its steeples and gray
roofs, is Prescott. At the right rise the ramparts of Fort
Wellington, whence cannon-balls came hissing over to Ogdensburg
some fifty years ago. We stand within a pretty range, suppose
they should try it again! Farther on still is a plain, gray
tower, where a handful of "patriots" intrenched and destroyed
themselves with perverse martyrophobia in a foolish and
fruitless endeavor. The afternoon is before us; suppose we
row over; here is a boat, and doubtless a boatman, or the
ferry-steamer will be here directly. By no means; a ferry-steamer
is thoroughly commonplace; you can ferry-steam anywhere. Row,
brothers, row, perhaps you will never have the chance again.
Lightly, lightly row through the green waters of the great St.
Lawrence, through the sedge and rank grass that wave still in
his middle depths, over the mile and a half of great rushing
billows that rock our little boat somewhat roughly: but I am
not afraid,--for I can swim.

"You can, can you?" says the Anakim, incredulously.

"Indeed I can, can't I, Halicarnassus?" appealingly.

"Like a brick!" ejaculates that worthy, pulling away at the
oars, and on we shoot, steadily nearing the rustic stone city