LETTERS FROM THE GULF STATES.

BY A NORTHERN TRAVELLER.

WATER-POWER AT THE SOUTH NATURAL FACILITIES FOR MANUFACTURING TALASEE: WET MPŽA: THE SHINGLE MAN OF COOSA COUNTY: OUR LANDLADY.

Wetumpka, March 24th, 1847.

ON all the principal streams of the Gulf States are a series of water-falls, which extend in nearly a due line from east to west. They commence with those of the Savannah at Augusta, include the head waters of the Oconee, Flint, and Chattahoochee, and from thence extend westward through Alabama. This series of shoals was in some former period the boundary between the salt water and the dry land. The region below abounds with the organic remains of marine animals, while the section above presents a surface of primitive rock, entirely destitute of marine fossils. These falls afford a water power unsurpassed by that of any other portion of the Union.

Notwithstanding these natural advantages, every species of manufacture is in its infancy at the south. But a few years ago, every variety of cotton and woollen goods, all agricultural implements, household furniture, and travelling vehicles, except those of the rudest kind, were brought from the north. You could not find a plough, an axe, or a tin bucket which was not the handiwork of a Yankee. Enter the parlor of a southern planter, and you saw no fixtures of domestic manufacture. Every article was from a foreign market. This is one of the causes why, with an annual income I believe of more than fifty millions of dollars from the cotton crop, the South has at the present time far less wealth than the eastern

states.

Within the last six years, however, the southern people have felt a deep interest in the introduction of manufactures. So great is the enthusiasm among the more intelligent, that nothing but a want of experience prevents them from an immediate investment of all their surplus capital in this department of industry. In Georgia there are already twenty-three, in South Carolina, eleven, and in Alabama, five cotton factories. In many of the larger towns also, there are carriage, furniture and various other manufactories. The profits, where they are under a skilful and economical supervision, are greater than at the north. Twenty years hence the upper section of the above-mentioned states will probably rival New-England in the extent and variety of their manufactures.

One of the most attractive of the water-falls of Alabama, both in point of scenery and the capability of being applied to practical purposes, is that of Talasee. A rocky island divides the current of the Talapoosa, which at first falls perpendicularly twenty feet, and then gradually descends fifty, till it reaches the site of Talasee, an

old Indian town. This was a famous fishing place of the Creeks. In the spring, a large number are still caught in traps and nets, and among them we saw a sturgeon weighing one hundred and eightyfive pounds. The basins worn in the ledge by the incessant action of the boulders moved by the current are numerous and deep; some of them containing several hundred gallons of water. These falls, until recently, were owned by Du Bois, a native of New-York, who acquired them by his marriage with one of the Creek nation. Years ago he travelled over the most of the western continent, resided with the Indians for a long time, adopted their habits and usages, married one of their number, and is now living in his log-cabin on the western bank of the Talapoosa.

Wetumpka, from whence we are writing, is the remotest inland market of Alabama. It is so far up the Coosa that its navigation is interrupted during the summer. It is also above the rich cotton lands of the state, and its trade is with the inhabitants of the hilly country; men who raise but moderate crops, and many of them coming a long distance to market. They usually have ox teams, and like emigrants, camp out at night, carrying with them their provision and fodder. Their wives often accompany them, having in charge a few baskets of fruit and eggs. They alternately drive the team, using no goad, but guiding by a rope which is fastened to one of the horns of the near ox. Those who live at a distance, visit the

market but once a year.

It was late in the day when I left Talasee. Coming through the pine woods about sunset, I met one of the country crackers,' as the backwoodsmen are called, who having been to Wetumpka with a load of shingles, was on his way home. His horse blind as well as lean, having been left too much to his own guidance, had encountered a formidable stump on the road-side, and in struggling to extricate himself had broken one of the shafts. I discovered at once, that the man had been where, if he had not, other men at least had been tippling. He did not notice my arrival, but was leisurely employed in endeavoring to repair his shattered vehicle. Without seeming to be disturbed by the accident, he was entertaining himself in a very satisfactory soliloquy:

People have a great many ways of takin' happiness,' said he; 'some by keepin' a lot of niggers and raisin' a cotton crop; some by sellin' goods, or swappin' hosses, or lumberin'; but for myself, I must say I never did know any thing quite equal to the shingle-busi

ness.'

'I know there's lots and cords of ways of takin' comfort in this world, and I've had a hand in most all of 'em; farmin', tendin' saw-mill, and steam-boatin'; but I never found in all my undertakin's what did come quite up to this 'ere gittin' out shingles. It's a real salty business; and then there's sich fun; by heavens, it beats coon and pussum-huntin' all holler.'

I've had a smart chance of enjoying myself, one way and another - no mistake about it. After all, though I must say that the

shingle business is a leetle the tallest sort of comfort a feller can have in this 'ere unfriendly 'arth.'

I passed on, thinking it intrusive to disturb the tranquillity of one whose self-communings were of so complacent a nature. How varied an estimate of human happiness is formed by different individuals! This business of shingle-making and shingle-selling would be a most annoying and uncongenial occupation to a man of energy and thrifty habits, and seldom yields more than a scanty recompense. In justice to the piny woodsman of Coosa county, however, I should add, that he is by no means alone in his appreciation of the exquisite felicity of dealing in shingles.

It was after dark when I reached Wetumpka, and I put up at the first public house which presented itself. After supper I went into the parlor, where the landlady, a large and good-natured matron, informed me that she was from South-Carolina, and a mighty strong nullifier' beside. Of course, she was an enthusiastic admirer of the Great South-Carolinian.' Soon after, I retired, but my repose was disturbed by a man in an adjoining room who in a fit of delirium tremens occasionally cried out at the top of his voice, 'Gentlemen, I am the star of the universe and the lightning-bug of the world!'

LETTER SIXTH.

HILLY REGION OF ALABAMA: HENRICUS JOHNSON: INCIDENT OF DARTMOOR FRISON TREY TWO HAD GROWN OLD TOGETHER."

Tuscaloosa, (Ala.,) April 1, 1847.

IN crossing the head-waters of the river Coosa, during the last of January, I encountered a hilly section with a soil less fertile, but not less rocky than the mountainous regions of New-Hampshire. It is the most sterile portion of Alabama. The hills are intersected by numerous small creeks and branches, having their sources only two or three miles distant, which after a heavy rain are for a short time impassable. One day, after a violent shower, I was met by a negro who, with strong indications of alarm, told me that he had lost his mules and wagon in crossing a branch about a mile a head. I hastened on, and found two mules lying dead in the middle of the stream, but the current had fallen so rapidly that their bodies were not covered with water. They were drowned not more than half an hour previous. These streams have no bridges, and he who travels here in winter must either learn to swim his horse, or be subjected to occasional delays.

These hilly counties are sparsely settled, and the few who live here are always found in some nook or valley, where a few acres of alluvial soil forms a sort of oäsis amid the barren hills. There are no post-offices, no mails, nor even a market short of Wetumpka, which is sixty or seventy miles distant. No leading roads pass through the country, but each settler having a pathway to his own house, the traveller is in danger of taking a wrong direction at every fork of the road. One Saturday evening I was overtaken by a severe rain storm, and in hurrying forward to gain a shelter, I took a wrong

course and lost my way. Night was fast coming on, and I had not passed a cabin for the last three hours. By this time also, I was drenched with rain; for on all the unfrequented roads here, the low, overhanging branches prevent the traveller on horseback from raising an umbrella. The atmosphere too had become exceedingly chilly and penetrating, as is always the case during the long rains of this mouth, so much so that New-Englanders often say that they suffer quite as much from sensations of cold during the rainy winter season in Alabama as among the snows of Vermont. Deciding to seek a shelter in the advance rather than return, I hastened on a few miles, and came to a steep descent leading into a valley. Descending into the bottom land I saw a light in the distance. It was now just the hour when a firelight looks most cheerful, and my Indian pony, encouraged by the discovery, volunteered a swift gallop. I found myself at the dwelling of an aged man and his wife, from whom I received a kind welcome.

Aretino, an Italian writer, calls a tavern a holy and a miraculous place, and says that 'He who has not been at a tavern knows not what a paradise it is.' Although not at a tavern, yet while enjoying the comfortable fireside, and wholesome fare of my host, and listening to the storm, increasing in violence as night set in, I thought that in some degree I could appreciate the quaint sentimentality of the old Italian. During the two succeeding days the weather continued stormy, and I remained with my venerable host, who was in his seventy-first year. His name was HENRICUS JOHNSON. He was a Welchman by birth, and at the age of eighteen, 'in an evil hour,' as the old gentleman expressed it, went to Liverpool and entered the British naval service. During this period he became acquainted with the American coast from Newfoundland to Chili. Tired, at length, of the monotony of a seaman's life, he deserted from the English man-of-war Belvidera, then anchored at Halifax. Making his way south as far as Rhode-Island, he hired himself as a day-laborer on a farm. The next year he married the daughter of a neighboring farmer, and continued his agricultural life till the spring of 1813.

At that time, in consequence of the war, there was a general depression in the wages of laborers; and Mr. Johnson, hearing that the Argus, Captain William H. Allen, was soon to sail from New-York with Mr. Crawford, the recently-appointed minister to France, repaired to that port, and again entered the naval service. He was on board the Argus during her triumphant cruise in the English and Irish channels, and after her capture by the Pelican was carried with the rest of the crew a prisoner to Dartmoor prison.

'It was the last of August,' said Mr. Johnson, that we reached Dartmoor; and I felt my situation to be more critical than that of my comrades, because of my previous desertion from the royal service, and the probability that I might be recognized by some of my old companions. Captain Allen, our brave commander, having been mortally wounded, died a few days after our landing, and was

buried with the honors of war. The services took place in the morning, and the crew of the Argus, securely hand-cuffed, marched from the prison to the burial-ground. It was a rainy day, and I requested one of the guards to throw my cloak over my shoulders, to protect me from the storm. During the services at the grave, I took the opportunity of receding step by step out of the ranks, till I found that I was so far removed from the prisoners as not to be recognized by the guard and spectators as one of their number. Wrapping my cloak closely to conceal the hand-cuffs, I took the most unfrequented route in the direction of Liverpool. Toward sunset I came to a blacksmith's-shop, in which a man and boy were at work. I approached, and calling out the blacksmith, frankly told him that I was an American prisoner, who had just escaped from Dartmoor; and throwing myself upon his generosity, begged him to unloose the hand-cuffs. He said that it would be dangerous for him to do so then, as the lad, at least, would be aware of the act; but he told me to meet him after dark under an oak tree, the top of which he pointed out in the adjacent forest. Instead of repairing to the appointed place, I thought it advisable to take a position from whence I could see whether the blacksmith came from his house unattended, and discovering that he did, joined him at the tree, where with the aid of hammer and chisel he readily cut off the irons. I had but two pistareens, one of which I gave to my benefactor, and wishing him a better fortune than had fallen to my lot, continued to travel during the night. Whenever I called to obtain refreshment, I reported myself as a sailor from a wrecked merchant vessel.

Not venturing to visit my relatives in Wales, I entered on board a provision vessel for Halifax, and a second time deserted, and made my way across the country to Rhode-Island, after an absence of ten months. At the close of the war the feeble health of my wife induced me to remove to a warmer climate. It was thirty years ago last autumn that we landed at Mobile, and hearing of a new region recently ceded to government by the Creeks I removed hither, and the ensuing season built the cabin in which we are now sheltered. Since then we have mingled but little with the world, and have known but little of it. Not that we have a hatred of our fellow beings, and would avoid their society; but the frail constitution of my wife, and my own rude jostlings by sea and by land had created a desire for quiet and retirement. Old age has come upon us, and we shall soon close the journey of life in the valley we have occupied for so many years.'

My host had indeed passed through much of the 'rain and dust' of life's journey, but they had not disturbed the cheerful flow of his spirits, nor checked the warm sympathies of his heart. I have often, in travelling at the south, met with those whose generous hospitality will ever be remembered; and among the first of these is the aged Welchman, HENRICUS JOHNSON. A wandering pedagogue, in pursuit of health and novelty, pays this brief tribute to one whose name has never before and probably will never again appear upon a printed page.