does not appear by any means equal to the quantity of water which the other three lakes receive, it has been conjectured that a subterranean river may run from Lake Ontario.  This conjecture is not improbable, and accounts for the singular fact that salmon and herring are caught in all the lakes communicating with the St. Lawrence, but no others.  As the Falls of Niagara must always have existed, it would puzzle the naturalists to say how those fish got into the upper lakes unless there is a subterranean river; moreover, any periodical obstruction of the river would furnish a not improbable solution of the mysterious flux and influx of the lakes.

Some after noon we steamed past a small city on the southern coast which had a large natural harbor.

“Erie and Presque Isle Bay,” announced the Historian.  “A famous place.  From it sailed Oliver Hazard Perry with his fleet of nine sail to most unmercifully drub the British lion on that tenth day of September, 1813.  The battle took place some distance from here over against Sandusky.  I will tell you all about it when we get there.  My grandfather was one of the actors.”

He said no more, and for a long time the conversation was sustained by Vincent and myself.  The steamer put in at Cleveland just at dusk.  The stop was brief, however, and we left the beautiful and thriving city looking like a queen on the Ohio shore under the bridal veil of night.  The evening was brilliant with moonlight.  The lake was like a mirror or an enchanted sea.  Hour after hour passed, and we still sat on deck gazing on the scene.  Far to the south we saw the many lights of a city shining.  It was Sandusky.

“How delightful it is!” murmured Vincent.

“Beautiful,” I replied.  “If it were only the Ionian Sea, now, or the clear AEgean”—­

“Those classic waters cannot match this lake,” interrupted Hugh.  “The battle of Erie will outlive Salamis or Actium.  The laurels of Themistokles and Augustus fade even now before those of Perry.  He was a hero worth talking about, something more human altogether than any of Plutarch’s men.  I feel it to be so now at least.  It was right here somewhere that the battle raged.”

“He was quite a young man, I believe,” said I, glad to show that I knew something of the hero.  I had seen his house at Newport many times, one of the old colonial kind, and his picture, that of a tall, slim man, with dash and bravery in his face, was not unfamiliar to me.

“Yes; only twenty-seven, and just married,” continued the Historian, settling down to work.  “Before the battle he read over his wife’s letters for the last time, and then tore them up, so that the enemy should not see those records of the heart, if victorious.  ’This is the most important day of my life,’ he said to his officers, as the first shot from the British came crashing among the sails of the Lawrence; ‘but we know how to beat those fellows,’ he added, with a laugh.  He had nine vessels, with fifty-four guns and four hundred and ninety officers and men.  The British had six ships mounting sixty-three guns, with five hundred and two officers and men.