On the 18th of February we arrived in the yacht off Mosquito Inlet about sunrise, and as the tide served our pilot took us in over the bar, which happened to be smooth at the time, and we anchored just above the junction of the Halifax and Hillsboro Rivers.  Rivers they are called by the Floridians, but are long stretches of salt water lying parallel with the coast, and separated from the sea by a sandy beach of a mile in width, which is covered with a growth of pitch-pine and palmetto scrub.  In New York and New Jersey such waters are called bays, and on the coast of Carolina they are sounds.  They furnish a convenient boat-navigation for the people, who in consequence do most of their traveling by water.

Here we found lying at anchor a couple of large Eastern schooners:  they were waiting for cargoes of live-oak, which was being cut by a large force of men in the employ of the Swifts, a firm that supplies all this timber for the American navy.  A lighthouse is much needed here, the entrance being narrow, with only eight or ten feet of water at high tide.  The Victoria followed us in, and we had not been long at anchor when a canoe came down the river under sail, and rounding to alongside, a tall young man in white duck jacket and trousers stepped on board, and accosted our pilot:  “How are you, Pecetti?  So you are taking up my trade?”

“Well, yes:  I’ve shipped as pilot for this cruise, and Al.  Caznova has the other yacht.—­Captain Morris, this is Mr. Weldon, one of the branch pilots.”

“How do you do, Mr. Weldon?  Is there a collector of the port here?”

“There’s a deputy living in that cottage that you see on the bluff to the left—­Major Allen; and there is his boat coming down the river.”

“Any hotel here, Mr. Weldon?”

“Yes, there is a very good one at New Smyrna, about three miles up the river:  Mr. Loud keeps it.”

“We think of stopping here two or three days:  where would be the best place to anchor the yachts?”

“If you are going to Loud’s, you can anchor near Major Allen’s:  there is good holding ground, and you would be in sight of your vessel.”

“Won’t you stop and take breakfast, Mr. Weldon? and we will get you to show us the way to the hotel.”

“Much obliged, but I want to see the pilot of the other yacht.  You can see the hotel when you get to Major Allen’s;” and he departed.

“I believe I have seen that man before,” said Captain Morris.  “We sent a party ashore here in ’63 to get wood, and they were fired upon by the natives, and one man was killed.  I shelled the place and burned a house or two, and we took a couple of prisoners and left them at St. Augustine.  I think this young fellow was one of them.”

Presently a yawl boat, rowed by two negroes, with the revenue flag flying, came alongside, and a stout man of middle age came on board.  Morris came forward:  “Mr. Allen, the collector, I suppose?  I am master and owner of this yacht, the Pelican of New York, a pleasure-vessel on a cruise.  The other schooner is also a yacht:  she belongs in Montreal.”