he village
tavern, the losing side paying the score.

We reached Stewart's Island (901 miles) at five o'clock, and went into
camp upon the landing-beach of hard, white sand, facing Kentucky. The
island is two miles long, the owner living in Bird's Point Landing,
Ky., just below us--a rather shabby but picturesquely-situated little
village, at the base of pretty, wooded hills. A hundred and fifty
acres of the island are planted to corn, and the owner's laborers--a
white overseer and five blacks--are housed a half-mile above us, in a
rude cabin half-hidden in a generous maple grove.

The white man soon came down to the strand, riding his mule, and both
drank freely from the muddy river. He was a fairly-intelligent young
fellow, and proud of his mount--no need of lines, he said, for "this
yer mule; ye on'y say 'gee!' and 'haw!' and he done git thar ev'ry
time, sir-r! 'Pears to me, he jist done think it out to hisself, like
a man would. Hit ain't no use try'n' boss that yere mule, he's thet
ugly when he's sot on 't--but jist pat him on th' naick and say, 'So
thar, Solomon!' and thar ain't no one knows how to act better 'n he."

As we were at dinner, in the twilight, the five negroes also came
riding down the angling roadway, in picturesque single file, singing
snatches of camp-meeting songs in that weird minor key with which
we are so familiar in "jubilee" music. Across the river, a Kentucky
darky, riding a mule along the dusky woodland road at the base of
the hills, and evidently going home from his work in the fields, was
singing at the top of his bent, apparently as a stimulus to failing
courage. Our islanders shouted at him in derision. The shoreman's
replies, which lacked not for spice, came clear and sharp across the
half-mile of smooth water, and his tormentors quickly ceased chaffing.
Having all drunk copiously, men and mules resumed their line of march
up the bank, and disappeared as they came, still chanting the crude
melodies of their people. An hour later, we could hear them at the
cabin, singing "John Brown's Body" and other old friends--with the
moon, bright and clear in its first quarter, adding a touch of romance
to the scene.

[Footnote A: See Chapter XIII.]

[Footnote B: "Scrawled over by that class of aspiring travelers who
defile noble monuments with their worthless names."--Irving, in _The
Alhambra_.]

CHAPTER XXI.

The Cumberland and the Tennessee--Stately Solitudes--Old Fort
Ma