On Moose-head Lake, at the head of the Kennebeck, a steam tow-boat has recently been built, which has proved very serviceable to lumbermen in towing rafts to the outlet. Probably the time will come when the business of other large lakes in Maine will require the services of similar boats. Had the same degree of knowledge and interest existed twenty years ago in regard to the application of steam to the various purposes of life that is now manifested, the crystal waters of the beautiful Grand Lake, at the head of the St. Croix, would have been plowed by the prow of some little steamer long ago. But now one great leading motive for such an undertaking is irrecoverably past; the White Pines have been mowed by the woodmen's ax; they have disappeared forever, at least in any considerable quantity. Still, other interests may arise and create a demand sufficiently promising, in a remunerative point of view, to induce an individual, or joint investment, for the construction of such a boat as may be needed. The Grand Lake is some twenty-five miles in length from north to south, and from six to eight miles wide at its greatest breadth. An imaginary line, passing lengthwise, constitutes the boundary between Maine and New Brunswick, the eastern shore being within the limits of her majesty's dominions. Settlements to a large extent have already been made on the American side; and when, in the course of time, the other side shall spring into importance, some little commerce may be opened between the two ports, a custom-house be established, &c., so that the places here sketched may constitute a miniature likeness of the two countries, with the broad Atlantic between them. However, in reference to the realization of what is here said of steamboats and commerce, we will say with the Dutchman, when he spoke prospectively of other matters, "Vell, vell, ve shall see vat ve shall see!"
From lakes and tributary streams, the various parcels of logs cut and drove by different companies issue forth, and form one grand drive on the main river, where the separate crews unite, and make common cause in the driving operation. In other instances one drive may precede another, making the river for miles one general scene of logs and river-drivers. Sometimes the foremost logs of one drive, unobstructed, pass on and mingle with what is called the "tail end" of the preceding drive. Under such circumstances, if there be any grudge to gratify by the foremost crew, or a substantial joke to be put, such truant logs are run aground, into creeks, in meadow land, among the bushes, and on the shore. A crew of thirty or forty men will take a log belonging to another crew and run it up high and dry on to the land, stand it on end, prop it up, and leave it in that position. The rear crew, on coming up, stimulated by the prank, knock away the props, and throw it down; a score of pikes pierce its sides, when they shove it upon the run perhaps twenty rods to the river again, amid the most vociferous hurrahs and whooping, enough to give one quite an idea of the Indian war-whoop. Some, perhaps, who may trace these lines may be curious to know how the logs of one party can be distinguished from those of another. The answer is, precisely as one farmer distinguishes his sheep from those of his neighbor by the particular mark they bear, each differing in some particular from every other. A representation of these marks, which are cut in the side of the log, would remind one of the letters or characters of the Chinese.
No employment that I am aware of threatens the life and health more than river-driving. Many a poor fellow finds his last resting-place on the bank of some wild stream, in whose stifling depths his last struggle for life was spent; where the wild wood skirts its margin—where, too, the lonely owl hoots his midnight requiem. I have visited many spots that were, from facts called up by retrospection, lonely and painfully silent, but have never been so spell-bound, so extremely oppressed with a feeling of sadness, as while standing over the little mound which marked the resting-place of a river-driver on the banks of a lonely stream, far away from the hearth of his childhood and the permanent abodes of civilization. The silent ripple of the now quiet stream (for the spring floods were past), the sighing of the winds among the branches of trees which waved in silence over the unconscious sleeper, rendered the position too painful for one predisposed to melancholy. When in those wild regions we have the misfortune to lose one of our number, after the body is recovered, we place it in a coffin composed of two empty flour barrels. One is passed over the head and shoulders, the other receives the lower extremities, when the two are brought together and fastened, his grave-clothes generally being some of his common wearing apparel. Seldom, if ever, does the voice of prayer rise over their bier under these circumstances; in silence the corpse is committed to its rude burial, while now and then a half-suppressed sigh is heard, and the unbidden tears steal down the sunburned cheeks of his manly associates. Events of this kind generally come suddenly, though, when in dangerous circumstances, are often anticipated. After such an occurrence, an air of sobriety pervades the company; jokes are dispensed with, the voice of song is hushed, and for several days the deportment of the men is characterized with a degree of cautiousness unusual, except when reminded by some such impressive example of the frailty and uncertainty of human life. But with most the impression soon wears off, and their accustomed cheerfulness is regained; their exertions marked with the same daring as before the accident, or as though a life had never been lost in the business. Lower down the river, in the vicinity of new settlements, the usual ceremonies on funeral occasions are practiced when an itinerant clergyman chances to pass that way. The following notice of such an occurrence was cut from the Bangor Courier: "Passing into the town of Passadumkeag late one evening during the past summer, a crowd had gathered in the street. It proved to be the funeral of a river-driver. His body had been taken from the water and shrouded in the open air. Many of the sympathetic villagers were there; and a pious elder, who chanced that way, breathed a prayer over his remains before they were borne to their final place of rest."
BURIAL OF A RIVER-DRIVER.
"They drew him from his watery bed,
And shrouded him with kindly care;
At ev'n his humble bier was spread,
And o'er it rose the voice of pray'r;
His only pall night's sable damp,
The stars of heav'n his funeral lamp.