The distance from Albany to Syracuse by rail, on the line of the New York Central, is about one hundred and forty-two miles, or reckoned by language on the dial, between six and seven hours.

Schenectady, the first stopping point on the route outward, was once hovered under the motherly wings of Albany—her lawful progeny. The embryo city, however, had aspirations of her own, and set up in the world for herself. She now rejoices in a population of about twenty-five thousand, and has separated herself from the maternal skirt by seventeen miles of intervening country. Union College, the alma mater of many of the sons of New York and her sister States, is located at this point.

The route from Albany to the junction of the Watertown and Ogdensburg Road, at Rome, takes us through the Valley of the Mohawk—one of the loveliest valleys in the State. At Little Falls the scenery is wild and rugged, and looking out from the car window to the opposite hillside, where the waters break into foam over the rocks, set in a dark framework of pines, the imaginative traveler conjectures at once that this must be the scene of the "Lover's Leap"—a bit of romance rife in this region. But the Mohawk rushes on, unmindful of those legendary lovers; the heartless conductor, who cares nothing about dreams, shouts "all aboard!" from the platform, and the screech of the engine whistle echoes down the valley, as the train is once more in motion.

At Utica we make a longer stop. This point is the largest place between Albany and Syracuse, and is as handsome a city as sits on the banks of the Mohawk. The Black River Railroad joins the main line of the New York Central here, and it is also the location of the State Lunatic Asylum.

Rome comes next in order, in importance and population, and is the last place of any note on the road to Syracuse. It is a stirring little city of about ten or eleven thousand inhabitants, and at least some of its citizens have mastered the art of advertising, if one may judge from the pamphlets which flood the arriving and departing trains. We are repeatedly made aware of the fact that one of the dwellers in Rome is a doctor, and that he doats on curing—not corns, but cancers.

The Midland Road from Oswego, and the Watertown Road—those connecting arterial threads from Lake Ontario and Northern New York—unite with the main artery, the Central, here, and the flow of human freight down these channels is continuous and unceasing.

The second station from Rome, on the road to Syracuse, is Oneida—so named from the tribe of red men who, less than a century ago, occupied this particular region. A tradition once existed among the Oneidas that they were a branch of the Onondagas, to whom they were allied by relationship and language. Long ago they lived on the southern shore of Oneida Lake, near the mouth of the creek, but afterwards their habitation was made higher up the valley. The famous "Oneota" or Oneida Stone became their talisman and the centre of their attractions. Many of their tribe were distinguished as orators and statesmen.

The Oneida "Community" live about two miles back from the station, and, notwithstanding their peculiar religious belief and social practices, they have achieved a reputation for quiet thrift, industry and harmony, which their more Puritanic neighbors would do well to emulate.

But, at last, our train enters the outskirts of Syracuse, and penetrating the heart of the city, rumbles inside the gates of the New York Central Station at this place. Outside, all is hurry and bustle, and confusion, as we descend the steps and elbow our way through the crowd, to run the gauntlet of hack drivers and baggage expressmen, with their plated caps and deafening calls.

Syracuse is sometimes known as the Central City, on account of its location near the geographical centre of New York. It was first settled in 1787, and did not pass the limits of a small village until the completion of the Erie canal, in 1825. Two canals and three or four lines of railway now centre here, and contribute to the growth of this enterprising city. The region surrounding Syracuse is rife with the romantic history of that once powerful Indian Confederacy known as the Six Nations, now fast fading from the memory of men. The site of their ancient Council House was on Onondaga Creek, a few miles distant from the city, and is still held sacred to their traditions by the remnant of the lost tribes now occupying the Indian reservation. The Onondagas became the leading nation of the Confederacy. No business of importance, touching the Six Nations, was transacted, except at Onondaga. They held the key of the great Council House; they kept the sacred council fire ever burning. From what portion of the country they emigrated before occupying this region is unknown, but there is a very early tradition among them that, many hundred moons ago, their forefathers came from the North, having inhabited a territory along the northern banks of the St. Lawrence. After a lapse of time there was an exodus of the powerful tribe to the hills and hollows of Onondaga.

The River God of this nation was named Hiawatha—which meant "very wise." He always embarked in a white canoe, which was carefully guarded in a lodge especially set apart for that purpose. Their favorite equipments were white. White plumes, from the heron, were worn in their head-bands when they went on the war path; white dogs were sacrificed. The yearly sacrifice of the dogs, among the Onondagas, was a ceremony of great importance with the tribe, and occurred at one of the five stated festivals of the Six Nations. On the great sacrificial day it was the habit of the people to assemble at the Council House in large numbers. Early in the morning, immense fires were built, guns were discharged, and loud hallooing increased the noise. Half a cord of wood, arranged in alternate layers, was placed near the Council House, by a select committee of managers, for the sacrificial offering. The two officiating priests for the occasion, as well as the high priest, were dressed in long, loose robes of white. At about nine o'clock in the morning the two priests appear. The white dogs following them are painted with red figures, and adorned with belts of wampum, feathers and ribbons. The dogs are then lassooed and suffocated, amid yells and the firing of guns. After some intervening ceremonies, the details of which are too long for recital here, a procession is formed, led by the priests in white, followed by the managers, bearing the dogs on their shoulders. A chant is sung as the procession marches around the burning pile three successive times; the dogs are then laid at the feet of the officiating priest, a prayer is offered to the Great Spirit and the high priest, lifting the dogs, casts them into the fire. After this, baskets of herbs and tobacco are thrown, at intervals, into the fire, as propitiating sacrifices.

Their idea of these sacrifices was, that the sins of the people were, in some mysterious manner, transferred yearly to the two priests in white, who, in turn, conveyed them to the dogs. Thus the burnt offering expiated the sins of the people for a year.

These ideas and customs are so singularly similar to the ancient Jewish religious rites as to suggest a possible origin from the same source. The mystical council fire of the Six Nations, which was kept always burning by the Onondagas, who had charge of it, and which, if extinguished, was supposed to prophesy the destruction of the nation, may have a deeper meaning than that attached to it by the chiefs themselves. It may possibly point to a common parentage with the ever-burning flame in the Vestal Temple at Rome, whose eclipse endangered the safety of the city. Another point of resemblance may be noted. Time, which is reckoned among the Red men by moons, also suggests the Jewish year, which began with the new moon, and was reckoned by lunar months.

The Six Nations had a firm belief in witches and wizards, and executed them, on the discovery of their supposed witchcraft, with a zeal and spirit worthy of our early Christian fathers. One old Indian used to relate a story something on the Jules Verne order. He said that, as he stepped out of his cabin one evening, he sank down deep into an immense and brilliantly-lighted cavern, full of flaming torches. Hundreds of witches and wizards were there congregated, who immediately ejected him. Early next morning he laid the matter before the assembled chiefs at the Council House, who asked him whether he could recognize any whom he saw? The sagacious Red man thought he could, and singled out many through the village, male and female, who were doomed to an untimely execution, on the evidence of this person's word.

The Senacas, another numerous and powerful nation of the Confederacy, were always noted for the talent and eloquence of their orators and statesmen. Corn Planter, Red Jacket, and other celebrities, came of this tribe.

Syracuse is celebrated for its salt, the country over; and the most singular thing about it is that the salt wells surround a body of fresh water. This sheet of water bears the name of Onondaga Lake, and is six miles long by one mile wide. It is about a mile and a half from the heart of the city. A stratum of marl, from three to twelve feet thick, underlaid by marly clay, separates the salt springs from the fresh waters of the lake. The wells vary in depth, from two hundred to three hundred feet, and the brine is forced from them, by pumps, into large reservoirs, which supply the evaporating works. The salt is separated from the water partly by solar evaporation and partly by boiling. The reservoirs for the solar salt evaporation cover about seven hundred acres of land. The brine is boiled in large iron kettles, holding about a hundred gallons, which are placed in blocks of brick work, in one or two long rows, the whole length of the block. It takes about thirty-three and a fourth gallons of brine to make a bushel of salt, which will average from fifty to fifty-six pounds in weight.

These salt wells were known to the Indians at a very early period—Onondaga salt being in common use among the Delawares in 1770, by whom it was brought to Quebec for sale.

Le Moyne, a Jesuit missionary, who had lived among the Hurons, and who first came to Onondaga in 1653, with a party of Huron and Onondaga chiefs, is supposed to be the first white man who personally knew about the springs, though Father Lallemant had previously written of them. In a letter which Colonel Comfort Tyler wrote to Dr. Jeremiah Van Rensselaer, in 1822, the first manufacture of salt at this place by the whites, in 1788, is described. He says: "In the month of May, 1788, the family, wanting salt, obtained about a pound from the Indians, which they had made from the waters of the springs upon the shore of the lake. The Indians offered to discover the water to us. Accordingly, I went with an Indian guide to the lake, taking along an iron kettle of fifteen gallons capacity. This he placed in his canoe and steered out of the mouth of Onondaga Creek, easterly, into a pass since called Mud Creek. After passing over the marsh, then covered with about three feet of water, and steering toward the bluff of hard land (now that part of Syracuse known as Salina), he fastened his canoe, pointed to a hole, apparently artificial, and said: "There is the salt!"

Salina, or the first ward, as it is frequently spoken of, lies partly upon the shores of this lovely lake of Onondaga, and enjoys the advantages of a close proximity to the saline atmosphere of the wells. The drives in the vicinity of the lake and about the neighboring localities afford an ever-shifting panorama of beautiful views, with glimpses of the blue Onondaga at all points. On a breezy day, in the early part of May, 1875, when the air was soft with hints of coming summer, and the violets along the river banks were just putting on their hoods of blue, I took one of those long and delightful drives which so exhilarates the blood and gives a kind of champagne sparkle to the mind. If there are any known remedial agents which can possibly be an improvement on pure air and sunshine, will you tell us what they are, Dr. Dio Lewis? My companion was keen-witted and full of jollity; we had a spirited animal, and miles upon miles of space quickly vanished behind us, as we sped onward over the smooth roadway. The hills seemed to open wide their portals and close again as we passed; the valleys allured us with their romantic, winding roads, and Lake Onondaga, viewed from all points of the compass, tossed itself into a multitude of little waves which sparkled in the sunshine like a thousand diamonds. The sky, changeful as April, alternated between floating fields of atmospheric blue and pillars of gray cloud. As we rounded the last curve of the lake, the tall chimneys and long, low buildings of the salt works at Salina came into view, forming a more conspicuous than elegant feature of the landscape.

The principal street for retail business in Syracuse is named Salina, and it always wears an air of brisk trade and enterprise. The large dry goods houses of McCarthy and of Milton Price are located on this street. Some of the public edifices are built of Onondaga limestone, quarried a few miles out of the city. It makes very handsome building material, as the Court House and other structures will testify. The ranking hotels of Syracuse are the Vanderbilt and Globe, though the Remington, Syracuse and Empire Hotels are well-kept and well-conducted houses.

The Erie Canal runs through the heart of the city, and the bridges over it are arranged with draws. The first steam canal boat I ever saw lay moored at this place, at the corner of Water and Clinton streets. It was gay with new paint and floating pennons, and created quite a sensation on its first trip out. It belonged to Greenway, the great ale man, and was named after his daughter.

The High School, on West Genesee street, has a delightful location on the banks of Onondaga Creek, and combines with its other advantages that of a public library. It has a free reading room, thrown open to the city at large, and a choice collection of many thousand volumes adorn its shelves. Sitting at the open window and listening to the noisy waters of the creek as it flows past, intermingled with an occasional bird carol overhead, I could almost imagine myself out in the heart of the country, away from the struggling masses of the crowded marts, in their mad race after wealth—with nothing more inharmonious around me than the bird orchestra of some imaginary June sky, the low sweep of waters and the sound of the summer wind among the pines.

Syracuse rates herself sixty thousand strong, and I am unable to say whether the hard figures will bear her out in this assertion. Perhaps, however, a small margin of egotism ought to be subtracted from our estimate of ourselves, especially when "ourselves" means a city.

James street is decidedly the handsomest thoroughfare in Syracuse. It is wide, well paved, and two miles or more in length. On it are congregated, with a few exceptions, the finest residences of the city. These are surrounded, for the most part, by spacious grounds, and some of them by groves of primeval forest growths. The street is an inclined plane on one side, with a gentle declivity on the other. From its top, quite an extensive prospect opens to the view, taking in most of the city of salt, and its enclosing amphitheatre of hills. Looking down the street, and over across the valley, the gray turrets of Yates' Castle can be seen, nearly hidden by its surrounding trees.

"A castle?" I hear my imaginary reader question. "Yes," I answer, a castle,—the real, genuine, article—towers, turrets, gate-keeper's lodge and all; nothing lacking but moat and drawbridge, to transport one to the times of tournament and troubadours—of knight-errantry and fair ladies riding to the chase with hawk and hound.

A Latin motto, on the coat of arms adorning the arched gateway, points to an ancestry of noble blood. But, alas for greatness! not even the lodge-keeper's family knew the meaning of the Latin inscription. We learned, however, that the armorial emblems were of English origin, and belonged, possibly, to the times of the royal Georges. The grounds about the castle are quite in keeping with the building itself. Winding roads, rustic bridges, statuary, summer-houses and fountains, fitly environ this antique pile.

Just opposite this place, on the hill-top, stands the Syracuse University—its white walls outlined in bold relief against the sky. It is a Methodist institution, and its chief office is to prepare young men for the ministry, and teach the youthful idea how to shoot, in accordance with modern theology. The location is breezy enough, and high enough, to satisfy almost any one's aspirations, and, if height has anything to do with ideas, the thoughts of these young students ought to be well-nigh heavenly.

But, at last, we are compelled to say good-bye to Syracuse, and all its pleasant associations, to say nothing of its salt. Westward the star of Empire takes its way, and we have engaged a seat on the same train. It is with real regret that we part company with these cities of our beloved New York—Syracuse not the least among them. But the arrival of the midnight "Lightning Express" for Rochester cuts short our musings, and we are soon whirling away in the darkness, leaving the country of the Onondagas far behind us, slumbering in the arms of night.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.