The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1875-09-18
WHAT BRICK POMEROY SAW IN CECIL.
+ Poner0y'S Democrat,

[Pomeroy's Democrat
At half-past two in the afternoon we are
at the little dried up village of Perryvilie
in Maryland, on the northern shore of the
Susquehanna river, and opposite of Havre
de Grace, pronounced Haverdy'' for short.
Forty miles farther on is Baltimore, but
Perryville is now our destination, or rather
the station, where we leave the direct line
from New York to Baltimore and Wash.
ington, and take the cars to Port Deposit,
a town of no little prominence, six miles
from Perryville and on the northern bank
of the broad and beautiful Susquehanna.
The station agent says we have nearly
two hours to wait before the train on this
connecting road leaves the depot. There
the cars stand, the water in the engine boil
ing and sizzling away in a provoking man.
ner.
The engineer is asleep on the grass. The
fireman is kicking up his heels and trying
to break the legs from the flies that light
on his nose. The express train has crossed
the beautiful, old and rather wealthy village
of Havre de Grace, then sped on its way.
Two hours to wait. What shall be done !?
We enter the station house to find few
persons sitting listlessly about. The tele-
graph operator is in his Office chatting
through little window with some lady in
an adjoining room where the fairer sex
while waiting for the trains can arrange
their toilet, adjust their bonnets, pin back
their skirts, read hand-bills and engage in
knitting.
We read all the hand-bills of all the rail
roads here represented, and then turn to
peruse the dying confession of some man
who has gone up in the livery business,
and who offers to sell at vendue all his
horses, harness, wagons, whips and other
property, to the highest bidder, for cash or
on twelve months time if some good man
will 60 his security and agree that the note
shall be paid at the Cecil County Bank.
Across the railroad track to the left is a
green bank, where the wild cherry and
other trees give heavy shade. We walk a
few rods to rest in this quiet, so heavenly,
after coming out of noisy New York. The
broad river is smooth as mirror. A mile
across it from this point is Haverdy,"
looking attractive and beautiful. Off to the
left is the upper waters of Chesapeake bay,
into which the Susquehanna is lost Along
the bank, nets of fishermen are reeled up
to dry. Down there is where so many
thousands of ducks are shot in the proper
season, to be marketed in the large cities of
the seabord. 1t is here that the best shad
in the world come in the spring to be taken
by the thousands, but they are not so numer-
GUS as they were years ago. 1t will not do
to sit here in the shade too long, no matter
how charming the view, so we walk back
to the depot and to Perryville. How much
it reminds us of hens nest full of broken
shells after the chicks have peeped out and
gone!
The station agent says it is against the
law to walk over the bridge to Haverdy,"
but that the railroad is compelled to carry
over and to bring back, from town to town,
free of charge, all who would thus visit.
But the cars do not run to suit our time, so
we tramp about Years ago, before the rail
road was built this place was on the stage
route between Washington and New York.
Before the bridge was built, the stages and
teams were ferried over the river on fiat
boat propelled by horse power. Then came
the cars, and the stage coach moved on.
Until 1866 the cars were ferried across the
river here on a long steamboat, supplied
with lunch counters, SO that the passengers
could enjoy the beauties of the river with
one hand, and put in a supply of cold pork
and beans, chickens legs, coffee, oysters
and doughnuts with the other, while the
pretty waiter girl fumbled in her pocket for
the forty cents or thereabout!
The steam ferry boat whistled its sarcas-
tic good bye to the old red stages as the
mackerel steeds dragged them away. The
horn of the coachman was drowned out by
the shrek of the steam whistle. The bridge
was built at cost of two hundred thousand
dollars, the cars were let on to cross it, and
the great white signal of call right " was
hoisted in the air to strike with awe and to
forever silence the steam ferry whistle at
tached to the steamer that now sleeps,
grows gray and worthless under the shade
of Haverdy" as rare old thing of the
past.
Close by the water on the Perryville side
of the river stands a tumble down old hotel,
built in 1928, and now, as for long time
owned by John A. J. Creswell, former Post
master General. Once this three-story no.
tel was big thing. Its bar was noted for
its powerful liquors, and the presiding
genius of the culinary department was
CONNIE IL! fat on stewed chicken, broiled
shad, oyster fritters, corn bread and canta-
loupes. When the stage driver packed his
harness oil, curry combs, horse medicine,
silk for whip snappers and stable overalls
into the boot of the stage and went hence,
the life went out from the Creswell Hotel,
and now a few niggers use it as roosting
place and for the begetting of sable sap
lings from the suckers of slavery. Where
the white man drank whisky the dusky
darkey now drinks benzine and wipes his
mouth on his coat sleep to wonder why
holes are burned into the garment!
The barn is no more made racketous by
the stamp of horses leg -tickled by flies, but
little chickens in this pleasant August day
stretch their legs and roll up in the dust
while a fat wench watches from a window
in the rookery, her mouth watering at the
prospect of pot pies and chicken stews at
no distant day.
In the old village all is quiet as the tip
end of dead garter snake. A few white
or white washed buildings are silent and
deserted From the shutters on the win
dows we conclude that they were stores
once. Hens, ducks and geese are doing
more than are the few inhabitants to enrich
and make productive the soil. There are
a few children playing in the dirt, while
from that small house on the knoll screams
a fair blonde
"Bill! o Bill! Bill, I say! come here,
yor yarf'