headquarters of a roving tribe of Indians, as many arrow points and tomahawks have been ploughed up on the place. To my friend, T. H. Lassiter, Esq., of Gates county, North Carolina, I am indebted for much of the information gained of that locality, and I could relate a good deal told me by that gentleman which might be very interesting. Mr. Lassiter lives at a beautiful farm, on the main Edenton road, near the Silver Spring, a place of great resort for persons living in that part of the county.

I will relate a very interesting conversation which I had with a very old colored man that I met in the road near the Orapeake Mill, in Gates county, North Carolina, when on my way to Suffolk, Va., and not far from the beautiful village of Jonesville, lying on both sides of the Suffolk and Carolina Short Line or Grand Trunk Railroad. I said to the old man, "Uncle, where do you live?" "Boss, you ax me a hard question," replied the old man. "Git off your hoss an sot down, I'm gwine tell you sumfin. Do you smoke de pipe, boss?" I replied that I did, and handed him my bag of tobacco. He took from his pocket what I supposed he called a pipe. It was the butt end of a corn cob hollowed out, with something protruding at a right angle, which he called a stem. What it really was, I could not tell. He filled it with tobacco. I then handed him a match, when thanking me very kindly, he lighted his pipe, drawing it a few times to see that it was well lighted, said: "Boss, I will now tol you sumfin dat happen many years ago. Do you see dat mill pon' yonder?" alluding to the Orapeake. I replied that I did. "Well, boss, dat pon' was de cause of my trouble. One dark nite I was in dar strikin' at fish. I had just hit a large chub, when a white man, who was in dar strikin', cum up and sed: 'Boy, dat is my fish.' I tole him dat I kilt de fish, an dat it was mine. 'Bout dat time he was gwine to take de fish, an den I took up my hatchet dat I had in de bote, whar I split liteard wid and hit him on de head. He drapped down in de bote, and I seed dat I had done sumfin bad. De man was dead, and I wood be hung if dey cotched me. So I drug de man ober de side of de bote into the water, and mashed him down in the mud, an dat man never cum up any more. I didn't go home any more. An arter a while de white man was missin', an de peple gin to talk, an I gin to git skared. Do you see dat house up dar?" I said I did. "Well, Marse Luke Sumner libbed dar. De big house dat he libbed in is done torn down, and de small one made outen it. He is done ded now, and when he libbed dar is mor'n a hundred years ago. His gran-son, Marse Joe Riddick, now own de place and libs at it. He mus be ni eighty year old. Well, dey fine de white man was done missin, an it bin dat I was strikin' fish in de mill pon' de same nite, dey 'gin to look for me, an my daddy tole me dat I had better go into the desart, which was de Dismal Swamp. I took his 'vice and lef. De runaway ketchers cum in dar to look for me, but didn't get me. I staid dar 'til de war was ober. I cum out and hab been lookin' 'bout dis place to see if I node anybody, but dey all gone ded, an nobody nose me. I tell you, boss, when you git in de desart ef nobody ses nuffin, de runaway ketchers can't kotch you. I am berry ole now, and my home folks are all ded an gone an I no nobody. De ghost ob de white man dat I kilt hants me all de time, wharebber I go, an I is a misable man. I am now on my way to de desart to hide myself an die." I asked him who he belonged to at the time he committed the murder. Replying, he said: "I longed to Capt. Richard Brothers, in de desert." "Well," I said, "did he ever know what became of you?" "I nebber heard any more from him arter I got in the desart. I heard dat he dide in 1817 ob de cole plague, or black tongue." "You are correct in what you have said, uncle," I replied. "I do not wish to interview you any longer on that subject. He was my grandfather and lived at the place mentioned by you. I hear the old people speak of the circumstances. You were his carriage driver at the time, and your name is 'Long Davy.'" "Yas, sar, dat is my name, but don't tell anybody 'bout it. I had a brudder libbing in de low parrish of Nansemond county, but he is ded. His name was George." I said, "Uncle Davy, you are correct. On one occasion, being at Driver's Store, in lower parrish of Nansemond, I saw a tall and very polite colored man drive up. I was struck with his appearance, and asking him his name, he said George W. Coston, sir. Then you are from Sunsbury, Gates county, North Carolina." "I was from that place," he replied, "but have been living in the lower parish since the breaking out of the war." "Were you a slave or free-born," I inquired. "I was a slave," he responded. "Who was your first owner that you recollect." "Capt. Richard Brothers, on the desart road, Nansemond county, Va., who died with the cold plague in 1817," he readily answered. He appeared to be very much pleased when I told him that his first master was my grandfather. He looked at me very straight and asked me my mother's name, and upon my answering Margaret, he said he thought he could see a family likeness, and said my mother was the first mistress he ever had, she "drawing" him in the division of my grandfather's property. I left him at Driver's Store and never saw him again. I have since heard that he was dead. I often thought of the circumstances of the meeting. Such frequently occurs and brings up recollections that are buried in oblivion. The corroborative testimony of George satisfied me that "Davy" was true in what he related to me about what happened at Orapeake Mill Pond, in Gates county, North Carolina, near the beautiful village of Jonesville, on the Grand Trunk Railroad.

That the Lake of the Dismal Swamp is to become the great centre of attraction there can be no reasonable doubt. Recent demonstrations in that direction go to prove beyond cavil the fact. The visit of John Boyle O'Reilly, editor of the Boston Herald, Mr. Mosely, of Washington, and several other distinguished persons, go to prove the fact. Contiguous as it is to the celebrated Magnolia Springs, with its vast hunting grounds, will be a sufficient inducement to invite sportsmen from all sections. It is certain that a railroad will be surveyed and constructed, commencing at or near Magnolia Springs, which will tap the Lake near the famous apple tree, and as a grand hotel will be constructed at the Lake visitors will have the privilege of stopping there or at the Springs. A sufficient amount of capital can be had for all purposes necessary, and as the hotel will be built about one mile from the shore of the Lake, it will be free from yellow flies, fleas, mosquitos, snakes, alligators, bears, pole cats and other annoyances which more or less infest the hotel. The hotel being built on piles out in the Lake, could be reached by a bridge starting from the shore, with a sufficient number of draws, which, if left open at night, would prevent snakes, bears, alligators, pole cats, etc., from entering the hotel. A strict watch will be kept, and if by accident the draws should be left closed and an alligator, bear or snake should enter the hotel, or should a snake be found coiled up in bed with some sleeper, no alarm should be given, it might cause some nervous person to jump overboard and be devoured by alligators, snakes, etc. By giving notice at the office of the hotel these annoyances would be removed with but little or no excitement. The object of the company is to direct the attention of Northern invalids to Lake Drummond and Magnolia Springs, the medicinal qualities of whose waters have been tested and are pronounced to be superior to any known in this country. After drinking of these waters all that you have to do is to go to Lake Drummond, bathe in its waters and