I was on my way down the river St. John, in New Brunswick, and having

heard that the Aroostook (one of its principal tributaries), was famous

for its salmon and a picturesque water-fall, I had taken up my quarters

at a tavern near the mouth of that stream, with a view of throwing the

fly for a few days, and adding to my stock of sketches. I arrived at

this place in the forenoon, and after depositing my luggage in an upper

room, and ordering a dinner, I proceeded to arrange my tackle and

pencils for an afternoon expedition. This preparatory business I

performed in the sitting-room of the tavern, where there happened to be

seated at the time, and reading the New York Albion, an oddly-dressed,

but gentlemanly-looking man. In form, he was tall and slender, appeared

to be about fifty years of age, and there was such an air of refinement

in his appearance and manners that he attracted my particular attention.

I said nothing, however, and quietly continued my snelling operations,

until summoned to dinner. While at the table, I sent for the landlord to

inquire about the stranger whom I had noticed, and his reply was as

follows:—“His name is _Robert Egger_; he is a strange but good man, and

lives the life of a recluse; his house is above the fall, on the

Aroostook, and about four miles from here. He has been in this part of

the country for many years, but I seldom see him at my house, excepting

when he wants to read the news, put a letter in the office, or purchase

a bag of flour.”

With this intelligence I was quite delighted, for I fancied that I had

discovered a _character_, which eventually proved to be the case. On

returning to the room where the stranger was seated, I introduced myself

by offering him a cigar; and while fixing my rod, asked him a few

questions about the surrounding country. His replies proved him to be an

intelligent man, and as he happened to express himself a lover of the

“gentle art,” I offered him the use of some fishing tackle, and invited

him to accompany me. He refused my offer, but accepted my invitation,

and we started for the Aroostook. He officiated as my guide; and when we

approached the river, which was from two to five feet deep, about one

hundred yards wide, very rapid, and filled with bridge piers in ruin, we

jumped into a Frenchman’s canoe, and were landed on the northern shore.

Here we came into a road which passed directly along the bank of the

river; this we followed for one mile, until we arrived at a

flouring-mill, located at the mouth of a large and very beautiful brook,

where the road made a sudden turn towards the north. Directly opposite

the mill, on the Aroostook side, was a narrow and rapid rift, where, my

friend told me, I was sure to hook a salmon. I did not like the

appearance of the place, but took his advice and waded in. I tried my

luck for some thirty minutes, but could not tempt a single fish. This,

my friend did not understand; he said there were salmon there, and

thought that the fault was mine. I knew what he wanted, and therefore

handed him my rod, that he might try his fortune. He fished for nearly

half an hour, and then broke the fly-tip of my rod. As I was cherishing

an earnest desire to take at least one salmon, _under the fall_, which I

thought the only likely place to succeed, and towards which I had set my

face, this little accident made me exceedingly nervous. My friend

attempted to console me by remarking, that, as it was getting to be

toward evening, we had better return to the tavern, and take a fresh

start in the morning. But this proposition did not suit me at all, and I

promptly said so. “Just as you please,” replied my companion, and so we

repaired the rod, and continued up the river. Very rapid, with many and

deep pools, was this portion of the stream; and our course along the

shore, over logs and fallen trees, through tangled underbrush, and

around rocky points—was attended with every imaginable difficulty, and

so continued for at least two miles. On coming in sight of the fall,

however, I was more than amply repaid for all my trouble, by the

prospect which there presented itself. It was, perhaps, one hour before

sunset, and there was a delightful atmosphere resting upon the

landscape. Directly before me, in the extreme distance, and immediately

under the crimson sun, was a narrow rocky gorge, through which foamed

the waters of the Aroostook, over a precipice of some thirty feet; and

just below the fall, rose a perpendicular rock to the height of nearly a

hundred feet, dividing the stream into two channels. The entire middle

distance of the prospect was composed of a broad and almost circular

basin of very deep and dark water, skirted mostly with a rocky shore,

while directly across the surface of this pool, winding down the stream,

was a line of foam, distinguishing the main channel; while the

foreground of this picture consisted of a gravelly beach, two bark

wigwams, several canoes, and some half dozen Indians, who were enjoying

their evening meal by the side of an expiring fire.

We held a brief conversation with the Indians, and found out that they

had visited the basin for the purpose of spearing salmon by torchlight;

and while my companion sat down in their midst to rest himself, I jumped

into one of the canoes, and paddled to the foot of the fall, to try one

of my fancy flies. I fished for about thirty minutes—caught one small

salmon—lost two very large ones, and returned to the Indian camp, where

I had previously concluded to spend the night, provided my guide did not

insist upon returning to the tavern by moonlight. It so happened,

however, that my interesting plan was vetoed by my companion, who told

me that his dwelling was only a mile off, and that I must go and spend

the night with him. I willingly assented to this proposition, and having

picked up the salmon, we engaged the Indians to ferry us across the

basin, and proceeded on our way. Our path was somewhat narrow, crooked,

and intricate, and as I listened to the roaring of the water-fall, and

thought of the mystery which hung over my companion, I could not but

wonder what I was about, and to what strange place I was going.

In due time, however, we emerged from the woods, and came out upon the

side of a gentle hill, which sloped to the margin of the Aroostook, and

was sufficiently open to command an extensive view of the river. Here my

friend told me to tarry a few moments, for he had a canoe hidden among

some willows, and wished to hunt it up, that we might re-cross the river

once more. I heard his words, but neglected to assist him, for my whole

attention was riveted by the scene upon which I was gazing. The sober

livery of twilight had settled upon the world, and the flowing of the

river was so peaceful, that I could distinctly hear the hum of

unnumbered insects as they sported in the air. On the opposite shore was

a lofty forest-covered hill, and at the foot of it a small clearing, in

the centre of which stood a rude log cabin—the dwelling-place of my

friend. On my left, the river presented the appearance of a lake: and

apparently in the centre of it were two of the most exquisitely foliaged

islands imaginable. The valley seemed completely hemmed in with

mountains, and these, together with a glowing sky, were all distinctly

mirrored in the sleeping waters. Charming beyond compare was this

evening landscape, and the holy time “was quiet as a nun, breathless

with adoration.” But now my companion summoned me to a seat in the

canoe, and we passed over the stream in safety; he hauled up his

shallop, laid aside his paddle, and, slapping me on the shoulder, led

the way to his cabin, repeating, in a loud, clear voice, the following

words:

“Alone I live, between four hills;

Famed Roostook runs between:

At times, wild animals appear,

But men are seldom seen.”

On entering the hut, which was now quite dark, as it only contained one

window, my companion turned abruptly round, and after making a

frolicsome remark about my being in his power, he exclaimed—“That

poetry I repeated to you just now was a home-spun article; but as you

might fancy something a little more civilized, I would say to you, my

young friend, in the language of Wordsworth’s Solitary,

‘This is my domain, my cell,

My hermitage, my cabin, what you will—

I love it better than a snail his house;

But now ye shall be feasted with our best.’”

Soon as these words had fallen from his lips, my friend proceeded to

collect some wood for a fire, and while I was left to kindle the flame,

he seized a tin-pail, and went after some spring water, which, he said,

was some distance off. In a few moments, I produced a sufficient

quantity of light to answer my purpose, and then took occasion to survey

the room, into which I had been thus strangely introduced. Everything

about me seemed to be oddity itself. First was the huge fire-place,

rudely made of rough stones, and filled with ashes; then the blackish

appearance of the log walls around, and the hemlock rafters above. In

one corner stood a kind of wooden box, filled with blankets, which

answered the purpose of a bed; and in front of the only window in the

cabin was a pine table on which stood an inkstand and some writing

paper, and under which sat a large gray cat, watching my movements with

a suspicious eye. In one place stood a wooden chest, and a half-barrel

of meal, and the only things in the room to sit upon, were a couple of

wooden chairs. The crevices in the walls were stopped up with rags and

clay, and from various rafters depended bundles of mint, hemlock, and

other useful productions of the wood. A rusty old gun, and a home-made

fishing rod occupied one corner; and on every side, resting upon wooden

pegs, were numerous shelves, of every size and form, which were

appropriated to a variety of uses. On one or two of them were the

cooking utensils of my friend; on another, a lot of smoky books; and on

others, a little of everything, from a box of salt or paper of tea, down

to a spool of thread or a paper of needles.

In a few moments my friend entered the cabin, and immediately began to

prepare our evening meal, which consisted of bread, fried pork, and

salmon, and a cup of tea. Plain was our food, but it was as nicely

cooked as if it had been done by a pretty girl, instead of an old man,

and the comic pomposity with which every little matter was attended to,

afforded me much amusement. One thing I remember, which struck me as

particularly funny. My host was talking about the conduct of Sir Robert

Peel and the British Parliament, and while in the midst of his

discourse, opened a trap-door leading to his cellar, and descended

therein. I knew not what he was after, and waited his reappearance with

some anxiety, when suddenly he bobbed up his ghost-like head, resumed

the thread of his remarks, and held forth in one hand a huge piece of

fat pork, and as he became excited about the conduct of the Prime

Minister, he occasionally slapped the pork with the remaining hand, and

then shook it in the air, as if it had been one of the bloody Irishmen

to whom he was occasionally alluding. He reminded me of Shakspeare’s

grave-digger. I also remember, that, when my friend was kneading his

bread, the idea entered his head, from some remark that I had dropped,

that I did not comprehend the meaning of a certain passage in

Shakspeare; so he immediately wiped one of his hands, leaned over for

his ragged copy of the mighty bard, and immediately settled the question

to our mutual satisfaction.

Supper being ended, I pulled out of my pocket a couple of cigars which I

had brought with me, and we then seated ourselves comfortably before the

fire, and entered into a systematic conversation. The greater part of

the talking was done by my companion, and in the course of the evening,

I gathered the following particulars respecting his own history:

He told me he was a native of Hampshire, England, and had spent his

boyhood in the city of London, as a counting-house clerk. He claimed a

good name for his family, and added that Mr. Jerdan, editor of the

London Literary Gazette, was his brother-in-law, having married his only

sister. He avowed himself about sixty years of age, and had been a

resident of New Brunswick ever since the year 1809. He first came across

the Atlantic as a government agent, for the transaction of business

connected with the Fur Trade; and when he settled in the province, the

whole country was an untrodden wilderness. Since that time he had

followed a variety of employments, had acquired a competence, but lost

it through the rascality of friends. He told me he was a widower, and

that he had one son, who resided in Frederickton, and was rapidly

acquiring a reputation for his knowledge of engineering. “It does my

heart good to remember this fact,” continued my friend, “and I do hope

that my son will not disgrace his family, as some people seem to think I

have done. The God-forsaken inhabitants of this region have a habit of

calling me a crazy old man. God be praised! I _know_ they overshoot the

mark in that particular; if I have lost my reason, I can tell the

mocking world that I have endured trouble enough to make even a

philosopher a raving maniac. By patient and unwearied toil, I have won

two small fortunes, but both of them were snatched away, and I was left

a beggar. The home government took pity on me, and offered to make me a

present of land, adding that I was at liberty to make my own selection.

I accepted their offer, and selected five hundred acres on the

Aroostook, making the fall we visited this evening the centre of my

domain. I duly received a deed for the property, and having concluded

that my fellow-men were as tired of me as I was of them, I bolted for

the wilderness, and have lived here ever since. Yes, sir, for twelve

years have I been the only human inmate of this rude cabin; I ought to

except, however, ‘a lucid interval’ of some nine months, which I spent

in England, about four years ago, visiting my friends and the favorite

haunts of my childhood. To enjoy even that little luxury, I was

compelled to sacrifice a portion of my land.”

“But why do you not sell your entire property,” I remarked, “and take up

your abode among men, where your knowledge might be made available?”

“Knowledge, indeed!” replied the hermit philosopher; “all that I

possess, you might easily hide in the bowl of an acorn. I do know enough

to cast my eyes heavenward, when crushed by misfortune, but the same

knowledge was possessed by the worm upon which I accidentally trod this

morning. What is man, at his best estate, but a worm? But this is not

answering your question. My only reason for not selling this property

is, that I cannot find a purchaser. Most gladly would I jump at the

chance, and then I _would_ mingle with my fellow-men, and endeavor to be

_of_ them. Travellers, who sometimes pass through this region, tell me

that my property is worth $5000; I know it to be worth at least that

amount, but I should be glad to sell it for $3000, and that, too, on a

credit of ten years. The interest would, indeed, be a meagre income, but

I have schooled myself in the ways of poverty; and though it once cost

me $2000 to carry me through a single year, I can tell you that my

expenses for the last five years have not averaged more than _twenty

dollars_, which I have had to obtain as best I could. But you must not

misunderstand me. The little clearing which surrounds my rookery,

contains six acres, and as I cultivate them with all diligence, they

keep me from actual starvation.”

“But it strikes me, my dear sir, that you ask rather an extravagant

price for your uncultivated land?” I asked this question with a view of

obtaining some information in reference to the valley of the Aroostook,

and was not disappointed. The reply of my friend was as follows:

“I can convince you that you are mistaken. In the first place, the water

privilege which my land covers, is acknowledged to be the most valuable

on the Aroostook, and I may add that it is abundantly fertile. And then

think of the valley, at the very threshold of which I am located! It is

one of the most beautiful and luxuriant in this northern wilderness; and

the only thing against it, though I say it that should not, is the fact

that nearly five miles of its outlet belongs to the English government,

while the remainder belongs to the United States. The whole of it ought

to be yours; but if it were, I would not live here a year; I am near

enough to you now; directly on the boundary line between your country

and mine. The Aroostook, I verily believe, is one of the most important

branches of the St. John. Its general course is easterly, but it is

exceedingly serpentine, and according to some of your best surveyors,

drains upwards of a million acres of the best soil in Maine. Above my

place, there is hardly a spot that might not be navigated by a small

steamboat, and I believe the time is not far distant when your

enterprising Yankees will have a score of boats employed here, in

carrying their grain to market. Before that time comes, however, you

must dig a canal or build a railroad around my beautiful water-fall,

which, I am sure, could be done for $20,000. An extensive lumbering

business is now carried on in the valley, but its future prosperity must

depend upon its agriculture. Already are its shores dotted with

well-cultivated farms, and every year is adding to their number, and the

rural beauty of those already in existence. The soil of this valley is

rich, and composed principally of what is called _alluvial_ (not

interval) land, together with the quality known as _upland_. In many

portions, however, you will find some of the most charming intervals in

the world. The trees of this region are similar to those of your

northern States. The staple crop of the Aroostook farmer is wheat. Owing

to the shortness of our seasons, corn does not arrive at perfection, and

its cultivation is neglected. Rye, barley, and oats, all flourish here,

but much more buckwheat is raised than any other grain besides wheat.

Grasses flourish here in great perfection, and the farmer of Aroostook

will yet send to market immense quantities of cattle. As to the climate,

it is not so severe as is generally supposed. Snow falls early, and

continues late, which prevents the ground from freezing very deep. And

when summer comes, as you may testify, the weather is sufficiently warm

for every necessary purpose. Now, sir, do you not think I have made out

a clear case?” I answered in the affirmative, and thanked him for the

information he had given me. Like Oliver Twist, however, I was anxious

for “more,” and therefore endeavored to start him on another subject. In

this laudable effort I fully succeeded, and by merely expressing the

opinion that he must lead a very lonely life in this remote wilderness.

“Not at all, not at all,” replied my friend. “It is my good fortune to

belong to that class of men who depend upon books, the works of nature,

and themselves, for happiness, and not upon a selfish and heartless

world. As to my books, they are not very abundant, nor are they bound in

fancy morocco; but the substance of them is of the right sort. Foremost

among them is the Bible, which tells even a poor devil like me that he

is a man. Perfect in their generation are the truths of this glorious

old Book; they have an important bearing upon everything; and they

should be studied and cherished with jealous care. But the earth-born

men, with whom I hold daily communion, are the mighty Shakspeare, the

splendid Gibbon, the good and loving brother poets Thomson and

Wordsworth, the gifted but wayward Burns, the elegant and witty Addison,

and the ponderous Johnson. These are the minds which always afford me

solid satisfaction. As to the immense herd who keep the printing presses

of the present day constantly employed, I know nothing about them, and

care still less. And now as to the pleasures which are brought to me by

the revolving seasons. They are indeed manifold, and it is pleasant to

remember that ‘Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.’ The

hills which surround my cabin I look upon as familiar friends; not only

when crowned with a wreath of snow, but when rejoicing in their summer

bloom; and a more peaceful and heart-soothing stream can nowhere be

found, than the one which flows along by my door; and you know from

experience that it abounds in the finest of salmon and trout. The

surrounding woods furnish me with game, but their greatest treasures are

the ten thousand beautiful birds, which make melody in their little

hearts, and afford me unalloyed pleasure for at least one half the year.

I seldom have occasion to kill these feathered minstrels for food, and

the consequence is, whenever I go out into my fields to work, they

gather around me without fear, and often come so near, as to be in my

very way. The quail and the wren, the jay and the bluebird, the

mocking-bird, the partridge, the fish-hawk, the eagle, and the crow, and

also the swallow, the owl and whippoorwill, all build their nests within

a stone’s throw of my door, and they know that the friendless old man

will do them no harm. And then what exquisite pleasure do I continually

enjoy in watching the ever-varying changes of the year! First, when the

primrose tells me that the rains are over and gone, and I go forth in

the refreshing sunshine to sow my seeds; secondly, when the glorious

summer is in its prime, with its dewy mornings and lovely twilights;

also in the sober autumnal time, when I thoughtfully count the leaves

floating on the bosom of the stream; and then again when the cold winds

of winter are howling around my cabin, and I sit in my pleasant solitude

before a roaring fire, building palaces in my mind, as I peer into the

burning embers. Yes, sir, I have learned to live without excitement, and

to depend upon myself for the companionship I need. I do, indeed,

occasionally steal out of my beautiful vale, and mingle with my fellow

men; but I always return perfectly contented with my lot. After all, I

do not believe that the world _could_ add greatly to my stock of

happiness, even if I were a worshipper of Mammon, a brawling politician,

or a responsible statesman.”

“But, Mr. Egger, it strikes me that your manner of life is not in

keeping with the Bible, for which you have expressed so much reverence.”

“That may be true,” was the reply, “but I make no sanctimonious

pretensions. I do but little to promote the happiness of my fellow-men,

and I congratulate myself with the idea that I do as little to make them

miserable. The influence of my example amounts to nothing, and I give no

bread to the poor, because I have none to give. But let us drop the

subject; I feel that your questions may so annoy me, that I shall be

compelled to abandon this glorious old wilderness, and become a denizen

of the busy and noisy world.”

A breach having thus been made in our discourse, I examined my watch,

and found it to be near twelve o’clock. My companion took the hint, and

immediately proceeded to fix a sleeping place that would accommodate us

both. This was done by spreading the clothes of the wooden bedstead upon

the floor. While going through with this little operation, he held high

above his head a ragged old bed-quilt, and asked me what I thought Queen

Victoria would say, if she had such an article to rest her royal limbs

upon? He then pointed to the particular spot which he wanted me to

occupy, giving as a reason for the request, that there was a hole on the

opposite side of his mansion, where toads, rats, and weasels were

frequently in the habit of entering, and he was afraid that they might

annoy me, though he had never been disturbed by their nocturnal visits.

This information appeared to me somewhat peculiar, but did not prevent

me from undressing myself to lie down. When about half through this

business, however, I was actually compelled to take a seat on account of

a laughing fit brought upon me by one or two stories, which my host

related for my special benefit. _What_ a strange man, indeed! thought I,

and making another effort, I tumbled into bed. In the mean time, my

companion had stripped himself of everything but his shirt, and in spite

of the frailty of his “spindle shanks,” was throwing himself into the

attitudes for which Kemble was distinguished, whose acting he had often

witnessed in olden times. I was already quite exhausted with excess of

laughter, and I verily believed that the queer antics of the anchorite

and philosopher would be the death of me. But I felt that I must go to

sleep, and, in self-defence, partly covered my head with the end of a

quilt, and almost swore that I would not be disturbed again.

I did not swear, however, and was consequently again disturbed. I had

just fixed my head upon the pillow, as I thought, for the last time,

when I was startled by a tremendous yell proceeding from without the

cabin. I rushed out of the house as if the old Harry himself had been

after me, and beheld my spare and venerable friend sitting upon a stump,

gazing upon the rising moon, and listening to the distant howl of a

wolf, with one of his feet dangling to and fro like the pendulum of a

clock. “Wasn’t that a musical yell, my boy?” were the first words spoken

by the hermit mad-cap; and then he went on to point out all the finer

features of the scene spread out before us. Silently flowed the stream,

grand and sublime looked the mountains, clear and very blue the sky,

spirit-like the moon and stars, and above the neighboring water-fall

ascended a column of spray, which was fast melting into a snowy cloud.

After enjoying this picture for a reasonable time, my companion then

proposed that we should enjoy a swim in the river, to which arrangement

I assented, even as did the wedding-guest of Coleridge to the command of

the Ancient Mariner. Our bath ended, we returned to the cabin, and in

the course of half an hour, the hermit and the stranger were side by

side in the arms of sleep.

On opening my eyes in the morning, the pleasant sunshine was flooding

the floor through the open door, and my friend, who had risen without

disturbing me, was frying some trout which he had just taken in the

stream. I arose, rolled up the bed, and prepared myself for breakfast,

which was particularly relished by the giver and the receiver. I spent

the forenoon rambling about the estate of my old friend, and enjoying

the surrounding scenery; I then proposed to him that he should go down

and be my guest at the tavern on the St. John for a day or two, which

invitation was accepted. On my return, I took a sketch of the secluded

vale where stands the cottage of my friend, also a profile of his own

handsome face, and a view of his water-fall. The time of my departure

having arrived, I left my friend with a heavy heart, for my distant

city-home, while he returned to his solitary cottage among the

mountains.

CHAPTER XXII.

The River St. John.

_Woodstock, July._

I have recently performed a pilgrimage along the valley of the Lower St.

John, and as I am about to leave the river, it is meet that I should

give my reader a record of my observations. The distance from the Falls

of St. John to the city of that name, is two hundred and twenty miles.

The width of the river varies from a quarter of a mile to two miles, and

the depth from two to forty feet. That portion lying north of

Frederickton abounds in rapids and shallows, and is navigated only by

flat-bottomed boats, which are taken up stream by horse power, but

descend with the current. Here, for the most part, the shores are

mountainous, and only partly cultivated, with high and picturesque

banks; the lowest portion, however, is of a level character, and

presents the appearance of an ancient and highly cultivated country, and

is navigated by steamboats, and the common sail-craft of the country.

The soil all along the shores is good, but seems better adapted for

grass than wheat, and I can see no good reason for its not becoming

greatly distinguished as a grazing country.

The river is not distinguished for any pictorial feature, (though it

abounds in beautiful landscapes,) excepting a place called the Narrows,

situated at the southern extremity. At this point the stream is not more

than five hundred yards wide, and as it is bounded on either side by a

high rocky barrier, the current ordinarily passes through with great

rapidity. The tides of the ocean ascend about thirty miles, and it is

only when the tide is high that the point in question can be navigated.

Though these Narrows are a great annoyance to the navigator, by the

lover of the picturesque they are highly esteemed.—Not only are they

beautiful in themselves, but, owing to the peculiarity of the place, it

is frequently the case, that the broad expanse of water above it is

covered with a fleet of sloops, schooners, steamboats, towboats, and

timber crafts, which present a peculiar and agreeable panorama. The

river abounds with salmon and shad, and the former, though rather small,

may be taken by the angler in the principal tributaries. They are not

sufficiently abundant, however, to constitute an important article of

commerce, and the common modes of taking them are with the spear and the

drift net.

The principal towns on the St. John are, Woodstock, French Village,

Frederickton and St. John. The first of these is one hundred and fifty

miles from the mouth, and though a ragged, yet an interesting village.

So far as its natural productions are concerned, I am disposed to

compliment this province in the highest terms; but I must say, that the

ignorance, idleness, and gouging character of its common people, have

made me quite willing to take my departure therefrom. The expenses of

travelling are enormous. Stage fares average about twelve cents per

mile, and if you happen to spend a week at a miserable country tavern,

you will have to pay two dollars per day for board. With a few

exceptions, there is hardly a _country_ tavern in the province, where

the traveller is not in danger of being robbed. It was my good fortune

to be robbed only twice, but I was particularly fortunate. This is

rather severe, but I am driven to talk in this strain, though I would

not be understood as reflecting upon the better classes of the province.

The stage route from the Grand Falls to St. John passes through

Woodstock, but the distance from this place to the American town of

Houlton is ten miles, and in this direction there is also an established

stage route to Bangor.

The next place on the St. John of any note is French Village. It usually

contains a thousand souls—most of them Indians. They live in frame and

log houses, and though they pretend to do some farming, they are chiefly

engaged in hunting and fishing. They are a good-looking race, speak

English fluently, and are the followers of a Catholic priest, who lives

among them, and officiates in a small chapel which was built by the

Jesuits at an early day. This society is said to be one of the most

wealthy in the province. The chief of the village is one Louis Beir. He

lives in a very comfortable and well-furnished house, is rather a

handsome man, dresses in a half-savage manner, and while he offers his

visitor a comfortable chair, he invariably seats himself upon the floor

in the true Indian fashion.

Frederickton is at the head of the steamboat navigation, and distant

from St. John eighty miles. Between these two places there runs a

morning and evening boat, and the summer travel is quite extensive.

Frederickton contains about eight thousand inhabitants, composed,

principally, of Irish, Scotch and English. It contains three principal

streets, running north and south, and some half dozen handsome public

buildings, including an Episcopal church, after the Tuscan order, a

court house and a college. The town is situated on a level plain, and

its suburbs are made exceeding beautiful by the number of rural

residences which attract the eye in every direction. The elm and poplar

both seem to flourish here, and add much to the picturesqueness of the

place and vicinity. The business of Frederickton is only of a

second-rate character, and it has become what it is, merely from the

fact that it has heretofore been the seat of government. This fact has

also had a tendency to collect a good society in the place, and its

“ton,” though in a small way, have been disposed to cut quite a dash.

The “mother Parliament,” I believe, has recently removed the seat of

government to St. John, and the lovers of Frederickton are sorry and a

little angry.

The city of St. John stands at the mouth of the river of that name, and

is also laved by the waters of the Bay of Fundy. I hate cities, but

suppose that I must stop a moment in the one alluded to. It is a

business place, planted among rocks, contains some twenty thousand

inhabitants, (two-thirds of whom are Irish,) and in this port, at the

present time, is moored a fleet of two hundred ships. Its public

buildings are numerous, the finest of which are the court house, an

Episcopal church of the Doric order, another after the Gothic, and a

Presbyterian church after the Corinthian order. The city is defended by

a fortress, which presents a handsome appearance as you approach the

port. The merchants of the place are chiefly employed in the square

timber trade, and have, heretofore, done an extensive business. This

trade, however, I am inclined to believe, is rapidly running out. On the

opposite side of the St. John River is a picturesque point or hill,

which is called Carlton Hill. It is surmounted by a massive block-house,

and commands an extensive view of the Bay of Fundy, the spring tides of

which rise to the height of sixty feet, and when coming in, make a

terrible roar.

CHAPTER XXIII.

The Penobscot River.

_Off the Coast of Maine, July._

One week ago I was fighting with musquetoes and flies, on the head

waters of the Penobscot, and now that I am upon the ocean once more, I

fancy that my feelings are allied to those of an old moose that I lately

saw standing in a mountain lake, with the water up to his chin. The

noble river which I have mentioned, is all my fancy painted it, and in

spite of its insect inhabitants, I shall ever remember it with pleasure.

The length of this stream from the mouth of its bay to where its

principal branches come together, is about one hundred and forty miles;

from this junction, to the fountain head of the west branch, the

distance is supposed to be one hundred and fifty miles, while the east

branch is probably only one hundred miles in length. Both of these

streams rise in the midst of a mountain wilderness, looming above which

is old Kathaden, the loftiest mountain in Maine, and elder brother to

Mount Washington, in New Hampshire. The mountain is distant from

Moosehead Lake only about twenty miles, but it towers into the sky so

grandly, that nearly all the people who inhabit the northern part of

Maine look upon it as a familiar friend. The two branches of the

Penobscot run through a mountainous region, both of them abounding in

rapids, though the west branch contains a number of picturesque falls.

The soil of this region, generally speaking, is good, but remains in its

original wildness. Its stationary inhabitants are few and far between;

but it gives employment to about three thousand lumbermen. They spend

the winter wielding the axe in the forests, and the spring and summer in

driving down the stream logs which they have prepared for the saw-mills,

which are mostly located on the lower part of the Penobscot. Nine months

in the year they labor without ceasing, but usually appropriate to

themselves a play spell of three months, which is the entire autumn.

They are a young and powerfully built race of men, mostly New

Englanders, generally unmarried, and, though rude in their manner, and

intemperate, are quite intelligent. They seem to have a passion for

their wild and toilsome life, and, judging from their dresses, I should

think possess a fine eye for the comic and fantastic. The entire apparel

of an individual usually consists of a pair of gray pantaloons and _two

red_ flannel shirts, a pair of long boots, and a woollen covering for

the head, and _all_ these things are worn at one and the same time. The

head-covering alluded to, when first purchased, is what might be called

a hat, but the wearers invariably take particular pains to transform the

article into such queer shapes as to render it indescribable. Sometimes

they take the crown and tie it in the shape of a fool’s cap, and

sometimes they trim the rims with a jack knife into many different

fashions. Their wages vary from twenty to thirty dollars per month, and

they are chiefly employed by the lumber merchants of Bangor, who furnish

them with necessary supplies.

The Penobscot, I suppose, is unquestionably the most fruitful lumber

river in the United States, and its pine and hemlock forests seem yet to

be inexhaustible; and the State of Maine is indebted to the lumber

business for many of its beautiful cities and towns.

From the Forks of the Penobscot to Bangor, the distance is about sixty

miles. This portion of the river is nearly a quarter of a mile wide. The

banks are rather low and level, and somewhat cultivated. The water is

deep and clear, and the current strong. Generally speaking, the scenery

of the river is not remarkable, and were it not for the numerous

islands, it might be considered tame, by the lover of a mountain land.

The islands alluded to, however, are exceedingly beautiful. Covered as

they are with venerable elms, and containing no underbrush, but a

continuous plot of green, they have all the appearance of cultivated

parks. The stage route from Woodstock, after reaching the Penobscot,

continues along the eastern bank, and as the coaches are comfortable,

and the horses good, the ride is quite pleasant. The principal village,

of which there are four, is Old Town. It is a busy little place, and the

present termination of a railroad from Bangor, which is twelve miles

distant. Directly opposite Old Town is a small island, where resides a

remnant of the Penobscot Indians. They number some four hundred souls,

and are just sufficiently civilized to lead a very miserable sort of

life.

I come now to speak of Bangor. It is a well built, and handsome city,

eighty miles from the ocean, and contains about eight thousand

inhabitants. It is at the head of tide water navigation, and has a good

harbor, where I counted, from one point, nearly two hundred sails. The

principal article of trade is lumber, which is distinguished for its

good qualities. All the heaviest merchants are engaged in the lumber

trade, and almost everybody deals in it to a limited extent. A few

thousand shingles will pay your tailor for a coat, a few loads of plank

will settle your account with the butcher, and bundles of clap-boards

are gladly received by the grocer, in exchange for his sugar and tea.

With the people of Bangor I was very much pleased. Their manners and

habits are stamped with the true New England character; they mind their

own business, and are distinguished for their intelligence, virtue and

hospitality. When I reached this place, my beard was more than half as

long as that of the Wandering Jew, and it took me nearly a whole day to

forget the bad French which I had acquired in Canada and New Brunswick,

and transform myself into the semblance of a civilized man. I had been

in the woods for so long a time, that I seized the first paper I saw to

find out whether I had forgotten to read. You may readily imagine,

therefore, what a refreshing effect the appearance and conversation of

intelligent people had upon my feelings. But the class of citizens who

made the deepest impression upon me, were the children of Bangor. I met

them at every corner, and heard their happy voices in every dwelling,

and a more perfectly beautiful race of creatures I never before saw in

any city.

The distance from Bangor to the ocean is eighty miles. For twenty miles,

the river averages three quarters of a mile in width, when it gradually

widens into an expansive bay or gulf. The water is deep, always covered

with vessels, and abounds in salmon, which are taken only with the net.

The shores are hilly and well cultivated, and the towns of Bucksport,

Frankfort, Belfast, and Thomaston, as you pass them, present each a

thriving and pleasant appearance.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Moosehead Lake and the Kennebeck River.

_Portland, August._

Moosehead Lake is the largest and the wildest in New England. It lies in

the central portion of the State of Maine, and distant from the ocean

about one hundred and fifty miles. Its length is fifty miles, and its

width from five to fifteen. It is embosomed among a brotherhood of

mountains, whose highest peak hath been christened with the beautiful

name of Kathaden. All of them, from base to summit, are covered with a

dense forest, in which the pine is by far the most abundant. It is the

grand centre of a vast wilderness region, whose principal denizens are

wild beasts. During the summer months, its tranquil waters remain in

unbroken solitude, unless some scenery-hunting pilgrim, like myself,

happens to steal along its shores in his birchen canoe. But in the

winter, the case is very different, for then, all along its borders, may

be heard the sound of the axe, wielded by a thousand men. Then it is

that an immense quantity of logs are cut, which are manufactured into

lumber at the extensive mills down the Kennebeck, which is the only

outlet of the lake.

A winter at Moosehead must be attended with much that is rare, and wild,

and exciting, not only to the wealthy proprietor who has a hundred men

to superintend, but even to the toiling chopper himself. Look at a

single specimen of the gladdening scenes enacted in that forest world.

It is an awful night, the winds wailing, the snow falling, and the

forests making a moan. Before you is a spacious, but rudely built log

cabin, almost covered with snow. But now, above the shriek of the storm,

and the howl of the wolf, you hear a long, loud shout, from a score of

human mouths. You enter the cabin, and lo, a merry band of noble men,

some lying on a buffalo-robe, and some seated upon a log, while the huge

fire before them reveals every feature and wrinkle of their

countenances, and makes a picture of the richest coloring. Now the call

is for a song, and a young man sings a song of Scotland, which is his

native land; a mug of cider then goes round, after which an old pioneer

clears his throat for a hunting legend of the times of old; now the

cunning jest is heard, and peals of hearty laughter shake the building;

and now a soul-stirring speech is delivered in favor of Henry Clay. The

fire-place is again replenished, when, with a happy and contented mind,

each woodman retires to his couch, to sleep, and to dream of his wife

and children, or of the buxom damsel whom he loves.

The number of logs which these men cut in a single winter, is almost

incredible, and the business of conveying them to the lake upon the snow

gives employment to a great many additional men and their oxen. The

consequence is, that large quantities of flour, potatoes, pork, and hay,

are consumed; and as these things are mostly supplied by the farmers of

the Kennebeck, winter is the busiest season of the year throughout the

region. When the lake is released from its icy fetters in the spring, a

new feature of the logging business comes into operation, which is

called rafting. A large raft contains about eighteen thousand logs, and

covers a space of some ten acres. In towing them to the Kennebeck, a

small steamboat is employed, which, when seen from the summit of a hill,

looks like a living creature struggling with a mighty incubus. But the

most picturesque thing connected with this business is a floating

log-cabin, called a Raft House, which ever attends a raft on its way to

the river. During the summer, as before stated, Moosehead Lake is a

perfect solitude, for the “log-chopper” has become a “log driver” on the

Kennebeck—the little steamer having been moored in its sheltering bay,

near the tavern at the south end of the lake, and the toiling oxen been

permitted to enjoy their summer sabbath on the farm of their master.

The islands of Moosehead Lake, of any size, are only four: Moose and

Deer Islands at the southern extremity, Sugar Island in the large

eastern bay, and Farm Island in a north-western direction from that. All

of these are covered with beautiful groves, but the time is not far

distant when they will be cultivated farms. Trout are the principal fish

that flourish in its waters, and maybe caught at anytime in great

abundance. And thereby hangs a _fish story_.

It was the sunset hour, and with one of my companions, I had gone to a

rocky ledge for the purpose of trying my luck. Our bait was squirrel

meat, and I was the first to throw the line. It had hardly reached the

water, before I had the pleasure of striking and securing a two pound

trout. This threw my friend into a perfect fever of excitement, so that

he was everlastingly slow in cutting up the squirrel; and it may be

readily supposed that I was somewhat excited myself; so I grabbed the

animal out of his hands, and in less than a “jiffy,” and with my

_teeth_, made a number of good baits. The conclusion of the whole matter

was, that in less than forty minutes we had caught nearly seventy pounds

of salmon trout. But the fish of Moosehead are not to be compared with

those of Horicon in point of delicacy, though they are very large, and

very abundant. The reason of this is, that its waters are not remarkably

clear, and a good deal of its bottom is muddy. Moose River, which is the

principal tributary of the Lake, is a narrow, deep, and picturesque

stream, where may be caught the common trout, weighing from one to five

pounds.

In this portion of Maine every variety of forest game may be found; but

the principal kinds are the gray wolf, the black bear, the deer, and the

moose. Winter is the appropriate season for their capture, when they

afford a deal of sport to the hunter, and furnish a variety of food to

the forest laborers. Deer are so very plenty, that a certain resident

told me, that, in the deep snow of last winter, he caught some dozen of

them alive, and having cut a slit in their ears, let them go, that they

might recount to their kindred their marvellous escape. But the

homeliest animal, the most abundant, and the best for eating, is the

moose. I did not kill one, but spent a night with an old hunter who did.

During the warm summer night, these animals, for the purpose of getting

clear of the black fly, are in the habit of taking to the water, where,

with nothing but their heads in sight, they remain for hours. It was the

evening of one of those cloudless nights whose memory can never die. We

were alone far up the Moose River, and it seemed to me, “we were the

first that ever burst into that _forest_ sea.” On board a swan-like

birch canoe we embarked, and with our rifles ready, we carefully and

silently descended the stream. How can I describe the lovely pictures

that we passed? Now we peered into an ink-black recess in the centre of

a group of elms, where a thousand fire-flies were revelling in joy;—and

now a solitary duck shot out into the stream from its hidden home,

behind a fallen and decayed tree; now we watched the stars mirrored in

the sleeping waves, and now we listened to the hoot of the owl, the drum

of the partridge, the song of a distant water-fall, or the leap of a

robber-trout. It was not far from midnight when my companion whispered,

“Hush, hush!” and pointed to a dim spot some hundred yards below. The

first chance was allotted me, so I took the best aim I could, and fired.

I heard the ball skip along the water, and on coming near, found my mark

to be only a smooth rock. Two hours more passed on, one small moose was

killed, and at day-break we were in our cabin fast asleep.

The principal outlet of Moosehead Lake is the Kennebeck, which now

“demands my song.” It is the second river in Maine, and one of the most

beautiful I have ever seen. Instead of watering a wilderness, as I had

supposed, all along its valley, for over a hundred miles, are fertile

and extensive farms, with here and there a thriving village, inhabited

by an intelligent and industrious people. Its principal tributary is

Dead River, and the spot at the junction of the two is called the Forks.

The cultivated region stops here, and between this point and Moosehead,

the distance is about twenty-five miles, and this portion is yet a

forest wilderness.

The principal attraction at the Forks is a capital tavern, kept by one

Burnham, who is a capital fellow to guide the lover of Nature, or the

trout fisherman, to Moxy Fall or Nameless Lake, which are in the

immediate vicinity. The mountains about here are quite lofty, and

exceedingly picturesque, abounding in the maple, the oak, the pine and

hemlock. Emptying into the Kennebeck, a few miles north of the Forks, is

a superb mountain stream, named Moxy, after an Indian who was there

drowned many years ago. Winding for a long distance among wild ravines,

and eternally singing to the woods a trumpet song, it finally makes a

sudden plunge into a chasm more than a hundred feet in depth. The

perpendicular rocks on either side rise to an immense height, their tops

crowned with a “peculiar diadem of trees,” and their crevices filled up

with dark-green verdure, whence occasionally issues, hanging gracefully

in the air, beautiful festoons of the ivy, and clusters of the mountain

bluebell. The depth of the pool was never told, and its waters wash

against the granite walls in a perpetual gloom. On one occasion I

visited it when there was a high freshet, and saw what I could hardly

have believed from a description. I stood on an elevated point, in front

of the Fall, when my eyes rested upon an immense log, some sixty feet

long, coming down the foaming stream with all the fury of a maddened

steed; presently it reached the precipice,—then cleaved its airy

pathway down into the hell of waters,—was completely out of sight for

at least two minutes; then, like a creature endowed with life, it shot

upward again, clear out of the water, made another less desperate

plunge, and quietly pursued its course into the Kennebeck.

In speaking of _Nameless Lake_, it is necessary that I should be a

little egotistical. It is a fairy-like sheet of pure water in the heart

of the mountain wilderness, only about a mile in length, but full of

trout. The proprietor was of the party that accompanied me on my first

visit. While approaching it, the remark was made that it was yet without

a name; when it was agreed that it should be christened after that

individual who should on that day throw the most successful fly. As

fortune would have it, the honor was awarded to me; and on a guide-board

in the forest, three miles from Burnham’s, may be seen the figure of a

hand, and the words “Lake Lanman.” There stands my written name, exposed

“to the peltings of the pitiless storm;” and in a few years, at the

longest, it will be washed away, and the tree which supports it be

mingling with the dust. Will it be even thus with the _memory_ of my

name?

Not to attempt a description of the scenery of the Kennebeck, which

could be faithfully given only by the pictures of a Cole or Durand, I

will take my readers down its beautiful valley, and tell them what I

know respecting its beautiful villages.

The first in order is Bingham, situated on a fertile “interval,”

surrounded with picturesque hills, charming and quiet as a summer day,

and containing within the jurisdiction of its town an uncommonly fine

farm, belonging to a Mr. Parlin, who manufactures large quantities of

maple sugar.

Solon is the next village in the Kennebeck valley, remarkable for

nothing but Caritunk Falls, which are twenty feet high, and run through

a gorge fifty feet wide. Here I saw some twenty men “driving” the logs

that had been lodged all along the river when it was low. It is a

laborious life which these men lead, but they receive good pay, and meet

with many interesting adventures. They generally have the soul to enjoy

fine scenery, and therefore demand the respect of the intelligent

traveller.

Anson, though in the valley of the Kennebeck, is situated on Seven Mile

Brook, and is a flourishing business place. From its neighboring hills

may be seen the sky-piercing peaks of Mount Blue, Saddleback, Bigelow

and Mount Abraham, which are the guardian spirits of Maine. The town is

distinguished for its agricultural enterprise, and the abundance of its

wheat, having actually produced more than is reported from any other

town in the State.

Norridgwock, so named by the Kennebeck Indians, because, when fighting

with their enemies at this place, they could find _no-ridge-to-walk_

upon, which was a desirable object. It is a charming little village, and

associated with a celebrated Indian chief named Bomazeen, and also with

a Jesuit missionary, whose name I do not remember. Not far from here is

a picturesque fall, also a picturesque bend of the Kennebeck, where

empties Sandy River, upon which are many extensive farms.

Skowhegan is a thriving village, where there are fine falls, which I

could never look upon without thinking of the famous Glen’s Falls in New

York, of which they are a perfect counterpart, though on a smaller

scale. Many and very dear to me are my recollections of its “choice

bits” of scenery, of the fine singing I there heard, of the

acquaintances there formed, and of the pleasant literary communings

which were mine in company with one of the best and most intellectual of

women, and who has, for many years, been my “guide, counselor, and

friend.”

Waterville, the next town on the river, is the seat of a Baptist

college, and the head of navigation on account of the Ticonic Falls. It

is the centre of an extensive farming district, which fact, together

with the literary taste of its people, makes it an uncommonly

interesting place.

Augusta, the capital of the State, is also on the Kennebeck, and with

its State House and other state buildings, its admirably conducted

hotels, its commanding churches, its large bridge, and pleasant

residences, is one of the most picturesque and interesting towns in the

whole of New England.

Hallowell, two miles below Augusta, was once a great place for business,

and is still a very pleasant town, though unable to compete with its

rival the capital. In my mind, it is chiefly associated with some fine

people, and particularly with three beautiful sisters, who are great

lovers of poetry, and accomplished musicians.

Gardiner, further down, is a tremendous place for saw-mills; and

lumbering I look upon as one of the surest kinds of business. It

contains the handsomest church-building in the state, and a number of

fine residences belonging to its wealthy citizens, of which that one

belonging to Mr. Gardiner (after whom the place was named), is the

finest.

Bath is the next and most southern town on the Kennebeck; it is quite a

large place, where there is a great deal of shipping done, and is now in

a flourishing condition. The sail down the river from here is a most

delightful one, for the eye revels on a continual succession of pleasant

farms, quiet headlands, solitary islands, and vessels of every kind

passing up and down the stream. Even to the present day, the Kennebeck

abounds in salmon, which are caught with nets from the first of May till

midsummer. To take them with the hook is fine sport, indeed, and for the

manner in which I conquered a solitary individual, I refer my reader to

a certain passage in _Scrope on Salmon Fishing_. Few are the rivers that

I love more than the Kennebeck, and very dear to me are its manifold

associations.

I date this chapter from Portland, which is a thriving city of twenty

thousand inhabitants, and interesting to the lovers of literature as

being the native place of Prof. Longfellow, Mrs. Seba Smith, and John

Neal.

CHAPTER XXV.

A fishing party on the Thames—Watch Hill—Night adventures.

_Norwich, Conn., August._

A few mornings ago, just as the sun had risen above the eastern hills,

which look down upon the Thames at Norwich, the prettiest sail-boat of

the place left her moorings, and with a pleasant northerly breeze

started for the Sound. Her passengers consisted of six gentlemen, all

equipped in their sporting jackets, and furnished with fishing tackle,

and their place of destination was Watch Hill, which is a point of land

in Rhode Island, extending into the Atlantic, a few miles from

Stonington. We were on a fishing frolic, as a matter of course, and a

happier company, I ween, were never yet afloat, for the sport of a

morning breeze. What with the story, the jest, the iced lemonade and

exquisite cigar, the minutes glided by as swiftly and unobserved as the

tiny waves around us. Now we met a solitary fisherman, towing for bass,

and as we hailed him with a friendly shout, and passed by, he began to

talk in an under tone, and his voice did not die away until we had

turned a point. What would I not give for an accurate record of that old

man’s life! Anon, we witnessed the soothing picture of a well-conducted

farm, with its green-girt cottage, spacious barns, neat and flowing

fields, and its horses and oxen, cows, sheep, hogs, and poultry. Now we

saw some noble men, such as Vernet delighted to paint, hauling the

seine, and, as the “fruit of all their toil” were thrown upon the sand,

their flipping forms reflected back the sunlight, reminding us

of—anything the reader may be pleased to imagine. Now, we were

overtaken and tossed about by a steamer bound to New Haven; and then we

sailed in company with a boat, a sloop, and schooner; meeting others,

beating up, from Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. And the termination

of this pleasing panorama was composed of Gale’s Ferry, the commanding

town, fort, and monument of Groton, together with the city of New

London, among whose anchored shipping floated the saucy Revenue Cutter,

and at whose docks were chained a goodly number of storm-beaten whalers.

Having taken in “our stores,” and obtained from the fish-market a basket

of bait, we again hoisted sail, “bound first to Commit Rock,” and

“binding” ourselves to capture all of the watery enemy which might tempt

the power or the dexterity of our arms.

When about three miles from New London, all eyes were attracted by a

beautiful craft on our lee, laden with a party of ladies and gentlemen.

“They’re going towards a reef!” exclaimed our captain; and no sooner had

the words escaped his lips, than the stranger struck, and stove a hole

through her bottom. We were just in time to save the party from a watery

grave; and when we had landed them in safety on the beach, we were well

repaid for our trouble by the consciousness of having done a good act,

and by the thankful words and benignant smiles of the ladies fair. A

dozen minutes more and we were within oar’s length of the fishing rock.

“All ashore, that’s coming!” shouted our mate as he stood on the rock,

when we all leaped out, and plenty of line being given her, the boat

swung to, and “like a cradled thing at rest,” floated upon the waves.

Then commenced the sport. The breeze was refreshing, and the breath of

the salt sea-foam buoyed up our spirits to a higher pitch, and gave new

vigor to our sinews. The youngest of the party was the first who threw

his hook, which was snapped in the twinkling of an eye. Another trial,

and a four-pound blackfish lay extended upon the rock. Another, and

another, and another, until fourscore, even-numbered, came following

after. Tired of the sport, two of the party entered the boat, and

hoisted sail for a little cruize. Half an hour had elapsed, when the

steady breeze changed into a frightful gale, capsizing within hailing

distance a fishing boat with two old men in it. Hanging on, as they

were, to the keel of the boat, (which, having no ballast, could not

sink,) their situation was extremely dangerous, as there was not a

vessel within two miles. The poor men beckoned to us to help them; but

as our boat was gone, we could not do so, which of course we much

regretted. For one long, long hour did they thus hang, “midway betwixt

life and death,” exposed to the danger of being washed away by the

remorseless surge, or swallowed up, as we were afterwards told, by a

couple of sharks, which were kept away only by the hand of Providence.

This incident tended to cool our ardor for fishing, and as we were

satisfied with that day’s luck, we put up our gear, during which time

the boat arrived, and we embarked for the Hill. We made one short turn,

however, towards the boat which had picked up the fishermen, as we were

anxious to tell them why we did not come to their relief. We then tacked

about, and the last words we heard from our companions were: “Thank

you—thank you—God bless you all,” and until we had passed a league

beyond Fisher’s Island, our little vessel “carried a most beautiful bone

between her teeth.”

At sunset we moored our little boat on the eastern shore of Paucatuck

Bay. On ascending to the Watch Hill hotel, we found it to be a large,

well-furnished house, and our host to be a fat and jolly Falstaff-ish

sort of man, just suited to his station. At seven o’clock we sat down to

a first-rate blackfish supper, then smoked a cigar, and while my

companions resorted to the ten-pin alley, I buttoned up my pea-jacket,

and sallied forth on an “exploring expedition.” As I stood on the

highest point of the peninsula, facing the south, I found that the

lighthouse stood directly before me, on the extreme point, that a smooth

beach faded away on either side, the left hand one being washed by the

Atlantic, and that on the right by the waters of Fisher Island Bay, and

that the dreary hills in my rear were dotted by an occasional dwelling.

The breeze had died away, and the bright, full moon was in the cloudless

sky. Many sails were in the offing, passing by and being passed by the

Providence and Stonington steamboats bound to New York. The scenery

around me, and the loveliness of the sky, with its galaxy of stars,

caused me to forget myself, and I wandered far away upon the

shore—alone, in the awful presence of the great Atlantic Ocean. No

sounds fell upon my ear, save the muffled roar of the ground swell, and

the faint whispers of the tiny waves as they melted upon the sand. I

traced my name, and beside it that of another, a being beauteous, for

whose cabinet of curiosities I gathered many a round, smooth pebble, and

many a delicate sea-shell. I wandered on, now gazing with wonder and

admiration into the cerulean vault of Heaven, or into the still deeper

blue of the mighty sea; and now singing with a loud voice one of the

sacred songs of the sweet singer of Israel. Now, a thousand images of

surpassing loveliness darted across my vision, as I thought of God—of

an eternal life in heaven—and of love, divine and human; and then there

came a weight upon my spirit, as I remembered the powers of darkness,

the destiny of the condemned, and the miseries engendered by our evil

passions. One moment I deemed myself immortal, released forever from the

contaminating influence of sin, and then I thought of the valley of

death, and trembled. In that communion with the mysteries of the

universe, strongly blended as they were, I felt that I could wander on

without fatigue, until the whole earth should be trodden by my pilgrim

feet. But the chilly air and the fading night warned me to retrace my

steps, and in an hour I had reached my home.

When the sun rose from his ocean-bed on the following morning,

surrounded by a magnificent array of clouds, I was up, and busily

engaged preparing for a day’s fishing,—first, and before breakfast, for

bluefish, then for blackfish, and lastly for bass. While my companions

were asleep, I went out with an old fisherman, and by breakfast time had

captured thirty bluefish, weighing about two pounds a piece. The manner

of catching these is to tow for them with a long line, the bait being a

piece of ivory attached to a strong hook. They are a very active and

powerful fish, and when hooked, make a great fuss, skipping and leaping

out of the water.

At nine o’clock our party were at anchor on a reef about one mile off,

and for the space of about two hours we hauled in the blackfish as fast

as possible, many of them weighing eight to ten pounds apiece. For them,

you must have a small straight hook, and for bait, lobsters or crabs. A

broiled blackfish, when rightly cooked, is considered one of the best of

salt-water delicacies.

But the rarest of all fishing is that of catching bass, and a first-rate

specimen I was permitted to enjoy. About eleven o’clock, I jumped into

the surf-boat of an old fisherman, requesting him to pull for the best

bass ground with which he was acquainted. In the mean time my friends

had obtained a large boat, and were going to follow us. The spot having

been reached, we let our boat float, wherever the tide and wind impelled

it, and began to throw over our lines, using for bait the skin of an eel

six inches long. Those in the neighboring boat had fine luck, as they

thought, having caught some dozen five-pounders, and they seemed to be

perfectly transported because nearly an hour had passed and I had caught

nothing. In their glee they raised a tremendous shout, but before it had

fairly died away, my line was suddenly straightened, and I knew that I

had a prize. Now it cut the water like a streak of lightning, although

there were two hundred feet out, and as the fish returned I still kept

it taut; and after playing with him for about forty minutes, I succeeded

in drowning him, then hauled up gradually, and with my boat hook landed

him in the boat safe and sound. The length of that striped bass was four

feet two inches, and his weight, before cleaned, fifty-eight pounds. You

can easily imagine the chop-fallen appearance of my brother fishermen,

when they found out that “the race is not always to the swift, nor the

battle to the strong.” At three o’clock in the afternoon, a piece of

that fish tended to gratify the appetite which had been excited by his

capture.

Satisfied with our piscatorial sports, we concluded to spend the rest of

the day quietly gathering shells upon the beach; but causes of

excitement were still around us. No sooner had we reached the water’s

edge, than we discovered a group of hardy men standing on a little

knoll, in earnest conversation, while some of them were pointing towards

the sea. “To the boat! to the boat!” suddenly shouted their leader, when

they all descended with the speed of Swiss mountaineers, and on reaching

a boat which had been made ready, they pushed her into the surf, and

three of them jumped in, and thus commenced the interesting scene of

hauling the seine. There was something new and romantic to us in the

thought, that the keen and intelligent eye of man could even penetrate

into the deep, so far as to designate the course of travel of the tribes

of the sea. And when the seine was drawn, it was a glorious and

thrilling sight to see those fishermen tugging at the lines, or leap

into the surf, which sometimes completely covered them, to secure the

tens of thousands of fish which they had caught. There were a grace and

beauty about the whole scene, which made me long for the genius of a

Mount or Edmonds.

A little before sunset, I was again strolling along the shore, when the

following incident occurred. You will please return with me to the spot.

Yonder, on that fisherman’s stake, a little sparrow has just alighted,

facing the main. It has been lured away from the green bowers of home by

the music of the sea, and is now gazing, perhaps with feelings kindred

to my own, upon this most magnificent structure of the Almighty hand.

See! it spreads its wing, and is now darting towards the water—fearless

and free. Ah! it has gone too near! for the spray moistens its plumes!

There—there it goes, frightened back to its native woodland. That

little bird, so far as its power and importance are concerned, seems to

me a fit emblem of the mind of man, and this great ocean an appropriate

symbol of the mind of God.

The achievements of the human mind “have their passing paragraphs of

praise, and are forgotten.” Man may point to the Pyramids of Egypt,

which are the admiration of the world, and exclaim, “Behold the symbol

of my power and importance!” But most impotent is the boast. Those

mighty mysteries stand in the solitude of the desert, and the glory of

their destiny is fulfilled in casting a temporary shadow over the tent

of the wandering Arab.

The achievements of the Almighty mind are beyond the comprehension of

man, and lasting as his own eternity. The spacious firmament, with its

suns, and moons, and stars; our globe, with its oceans, and mountains,

and rivers; the regularly revolving seasons; and the still, small voice

continually ascending from universal nature, all proclaim the power and

goodness of their great original. And everything which God has created,

from the nameless insect to the world of waters, which is the highway of

nations, was created for good, was created to accomplish some omnipotent

end. As this ocean is measureless and fathomless, so is it an emblem,

beautiful but faint, of that wonderful Being, whose throne is above the

milky-way, and who is himself from everlasting to everlasting. But see,

there is a heavy cloud rising in the west, the breeze is freshening,

flocks of wild ducks are flying inland, and the upper air is ringing

with the shrill whistle of the bold and wild sea-gull, whose home is the

boundless sea; therefore, as my dear friend Noble has somewhere written,

“the shortest homeward track’s the best.”

Still in the present tense would I continue. The witching hour of

midnight has again returned. A cold rain-storm has just passed over, the

moon is again the mistress of a cloudless sky, but the wind is still

raging in all its fury.

“I view the ships that come and go,

Looking so like to living things.

O! ’tis a proud and gallant show

Of bright and broad-spread wings,

Making it light around them, as they keep

Their course right onward through the unsounded deep.”

_Dana._

God be with them and their brave and gallant crews. But, again:

“Where the far-off sand-bars lift

Their backs in long and narrow line,

The breakers shout, and leap, and shift,

And send the sparkling brine

Into the air; then rush to mimic strife;

Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life!”—_Ibid._

But I must stop quoting poetry, for as “a thing of beauty is a joy

forever,” I should be forever writing about the sea. Heavens! what a

terrible song is the ocean singing, with his long white hair streaming

in the wind! The waving, splashing, wailing, dashing, howling, rushing,

and moaning of the waves is a glorious lullaby, and a fit prelude to a

dream of the sea.

At an early hour on the following day, we embarked for home, but a sorry

time did we have of it, for the winds were very lazy. We were ten hours

going the distance of twenty-two miles. It was now sunset, and we were

becalmed off Gale’s Ferry. Ashore we went, resolved to await the coming

of the Sag Harbor steamboat, which usually arrived about nine o’clock,

and by which we were, finally, taken in tow. Snugly seated in our boat,

and going at the rate of eighteen miles, we were congratulating

ourselves upon an early arrival home, and had already begun to divide

our fish. But, alas, at this moment the painter broke; the steamer,

unconscious of our fate, still sped onward, while we sheered off towards

the shore, _almost disgusted_ with human life in general—for our boat

was large, and we had but one oar. But what matter? We were a jolly set,

and the way we gave three cheers, as a prelude to the song of “Begone

Dull Care,” must have been startling to the thousand sleeping echoes of

hill, forest, river and glen.

Having crept along at snails’ pace about one mile, we concluded to land,

and, if possible, obtain a place to sleep, and something to eat; for not

having had a regular dinner, and not a mouthful of supper, we were half

starved. With clubs in our hands, to keep off hobgoblins and bull-dogs,

we wended our way towards a neighboring farm-house, where we knocked for

admittance. Pretty soon, a great gawky-looking head stuck itself out of

an upper window, to which we made known our heartfelt desires,

receiving, in return, the following answer:—“My wife is sick—hain’t

got any bread—you can go in the barn to sleep if you want to;” and we

turned reluctantly away, troubled with a feeling very nearly allied to

anger. “Come, let’s go off in this direction,” exclaimed one of the

party, “and I’ll introduce you to my old friend, Captain Somebody;”—and

away we posted, two by two, across a new-mown field. Presently, our two

leaders were awe-stricken by the sudden appearance of something white,

which seemed to be rising out of the earth, beside a cluster of bushes,

and the way they wheeled about, and ran for the river, (accompanied by

their fellows, whose fright was merely sympathetic,) was “a caution” to

all unbelievers in ghosts and other midnight spectres.

At last we halted to gain a little breath; an explanation was made; and

our captain forthwith resolved to _investigate_ the matter. He now took

the lead, and on coming to the mysterious spot, discovered _an old blind

white horse_, who had been awakened by a noise, and, following the

instinct of his nature, had risen from his lair, to be better prepared

for danger. I doubt whether the echoes are yet silent, which were caused

by the loud and long peals of laughter which resounded to the sky. Being

in a strange land, without chart or compass, we could not find the

mortal dwelling-place of Captain Somebody, and so we changed our course

of travel.

We stopped at another house, farther on, but to save our lives we could

not obtain an interview, although we entered the hen-coop, and set the

hens and roosters a cackling and crowing—the pig-pen, and set the hogs

a squealing—while a large dog and two puppies did their best to

increase and prolong the mighty chorus. If our farmer friend did not

deem himself transported to Bedlam, about that time, we imagine that

nothing on earth would have the power to give him such a dream. Our

ill-luck made us almost desperate, and so we returned to the boat,

resolved to row the whole distance home, could we but find an extra oar.

It was now eleven o’clock, and the only things that seemed to smile upon

us were the ten thousand stars, studding the clear, blue firmament.

Anon, a twinkling light beamed upon our vision; and, as we approached,

we found it to proceed from a little hut on an island, where the Thames

lamplighter and his boy were accustomed to pass the night, after their

work was done. Having again concluded to land, we received a hearty

welcome, as the host proved to be an old acquaintance of our captain and

mate. “Have you anything to eat?” was almost the first question of every

tongue. “No, nothing but this barrel of crackers, and some cheese,”

exclaimed the man of light. “And we,” shouted one of our crew, “have

plenty of fish,—can’t we have a chowder?” “Ay, ay; a chowder, a chowder

it shall be!” were the words which rang aloud to the very heavens. A

wherry was dispatched to the main-land, to the well-known habitation of

the old fisherman, for the necessary iron pot and bowls, and for the

potatoes and onions, which were dug for the occasion; also for the pork,

the pepper, and salt; all which, added to our biscuit and blackfish,

nicely cleaned and prepared, constituted a chowder of the very first

water. There was one addition to our company, in the person of the old

fisherman; and our appearance, as we were seated in a circle on the

floor, each with a bowl of thick hot soup in his hands, constituted a

picture rich and rare. After we were done, it was acknowledged by all,

that a better meal had never been enjoyed by mortal man. In about thirty

minutes from this time, the odd one of the company bade us “good night,”

and the midnight brotherhood resigned themselves to sleep. The last

sounds I heard, before closing my eyes, were caused by the regular

opposition steamboats from New York, as they shot ahead almost as “swift

as an arrow from a shivering bow.”

The first faint streak of daylight found us on board our boat, homeward

bound, wafted on by a pleasant southerly breeze. At the usual hour, we

were all seated at our respective breakfast tables, relating our

adventures of the excursion just ended.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A week in a fishing smack—Fishermen—A beautiful morning at

sea—A day at Nantucket—Wreck of a ship—Night on the

Sound—Safe arrival.

_Norwich, Conn., August._

On a pleasant Monday morning I started from Norwich, bound to New

London, and from thence to any other portion of the world where I might

have some sport in the way of salt water fishing. In less than an hour

after landing from the steamboat, I had boarded the handsome smack

Orleans, Captain Keeney, and by dint of much persuasion, secured a berth

on board to accompany him on a fishing voyage. In addition to my

previous preparation, I had only to purchase a Guernsey shirt and

tarpaulin; and by the time I was regularly equipped, the sails were

hoisted, and we were on our course for Nantucket. An intimate

acquaintance was soon formed between myself and crew, which consisted of

the master, two sailors, and the cook. The whole time that I spent in

their company was six days, as I reached home on the following Saturday

evening. The incidents that I met with were somewhat new, as a matter of

course, and I employed a few moments of every evening, during my

absence, in briefly recording the events of the past day; and that

medley I now put together as a literary chowder.

_Monday Evening._ My observations to-day have been limited to our little

vessel, in consequence of a dense fog, which drenched us to the skin,

and seems likely to continue us in this state of preservation. I have

obtained some information, however, concerning the character of an

interesting class of men, which may be new to you. Smack-fishermen are a

brave, hardy, honest, and simple-hearted race, and, as my captain tells

me, spend nine-tenths of their time “rocked in the cradle of the deep.”

Their vessels, or smacks, are generally of about forty tons burden; the

number of those which supply New York and Boston with fish is said to be

near a thousand, and they are all at home anywhere on the coast between

the Kennebeck and the Delaware. Of the perils which these fishermen

endure, and the privations they suffer, how little is known or thought

by the great world at large! Yet I believe there is as much genuine

happiness in their lives, as in those of any other class. Their fathers

were fishermen before them, and as they themselves have mostly been born

within hearing of the surf, they look upon the unsounded deep as their

fitting home, their only home, and would not part with it for a palace

or a crown. Four is the usual number of a smack’s crew, and the master

is invariably called a skipper. Most of them are worthy husbands and

fathers, whose families are snugly harbored in some convenient seaport,

with enough and to spare of the good things of life. They are a jovial

set of men, hailing each other upon the ocean as friends, and meeting

upon land as brothers. Each skipper thinks his craft the handsomest and

swiftest that floats, and very exciting are the races they sometimes

run. Their affection for their own vessel is like that of the Arab for

his steed, and like the Arab, too, they have been known even to weep

over the grave of their darling and their pride.

The kinds of fish which they mostly bring to market are shad, salmon,

lobsters, mackerel, cod, bluefish, haddock, blackfish, paugies, bass,

and halibut. The first three are generally purchased of local fishermen,

but all the rest are caught by themselves. The haunts of the blackfish

are rocky reefs, those of the bass and bluefish in the vicinity of sandy

shoals or tide rips, and those of the remainder in about fifteen fathoms

water. These are the varieties they capture by way of business, but when

in a frolicsome mood, they frequently attack a sword-fish, a shark, or

black whale; soul-thrilling, indeed, and laughable withal, are the yarns

they spin concerning these exploits.

As to their mode of living, while at sea, it is just what it should be,

and what they would have it, although it would be “positively shocking”

to a Bond Street gentleman of leisure. But they always possess a good

appetite, which is what money cannot purchase, and without which the

greatest delicacy in the world would be insipid or loathsome. Fish,

sea-biscuit, corn-beef and pork, potatoes, onions, and pancakes,

constitute their provisions, and what besides these would a reasonable

man desire? It is with a mixture of some of these, that a _chowder_ is

concocted, and where can anything more delicious be found, even at the

tables of the Astor and American? And with these ingredients, moreover,

they manage very well to keep body and soul together, unless a storm on

a rock-bound coast happens to make a sudden separation.

I have just been on deck, and must say that I resume my pen with a

heavier heart. The fog has not dispersed in the least, a regular gale of

wind is blowing from the north, and the waves, seemingly in a revengeful

mood, are tossing our bark about, as if the skipper, like the Ancient

Mariner, had shot another albatros. But like a fearless man, as he is,

he stands at the helm, watching the sails with a steady eye, and the men

with their storm-jackets on are standing by, muttering something about

the coming darkness, and a reef somewhere on our lee. Never before have

I so distinctly understood the force of the Psalmist’s simile, when he

compares a wave to a drunken man reeling to and fro. Both have it in

their power to cause a mighty mischief, and both become exhausted and

perish,—one upon a sandy beach, and the other, sweeping over the

peninsula of time, finds a grave on the shore of oblivion. Heavens! how

the wind whistles, and the waters roar! Ay, but a still small voice

salutes my ear, and I lay me down to sleep, with a prayer upon my lips,

and a feeling of security at my heart, as I place implicit confidence in

Him who holdeth the ocean in the hollow of his hand.

_Tuesday Evening._ I was awakened out of a deep sleep this morning by

the following salutation from the skipper, as he patted me on the

shoulder. “It’s a beautiful morning, and you ought to be up;—the fog is

gone, and the wind is down; won’t you come up and take the helm awhile,

so that the boys and I may obtain a little sleep before reaching the

fishing-ground, which will be about ten o’clock?” I was delighted to

accept the invitation, and in a very short time the sailors were asleep,

and I in my new station, proud as a king, and happy as a sinless boy.

And O that I could describe the scene that fascinated my eyes as I lay

there upon the deck, with one hand resting on the rudder, and my other

hand grasping a Claude glass! I felt as I once felt before, when

standing on the famous precipice of Niagara, that then, more than ever,

I desired God to be my friend. I also felt, that, if the world did not

demand the feeble services of my life, I should wish to remain upon the

ocean forever, provided I could have “one fair being for my minister.”

More earnestly than ever did I long for a complete mastery of the

pictorial art. The fact of being out sight of land, where the blue

element announced that the ocean was soundless, filled my soul with that

“lone, lost feeling,” which is supposed to be the eagle’s, when

journeying to the zenith of the sky. The sun had just risen above the

waves, and the whole eastern portion of the heavens was flooded with the

most exquisite coloring I ever beheld,—from the deepest crimson to the

faintest and most delicate purple, from the darkest yellow to an almost

invisible green; and all blended, too, in myriad forms of marvellous

loveliness. A reflection of this scene was also visible in the remaining

quarters of the horizon. Around me the illimitable deep, whose bosom is

studded with many a gallant and glittering ship,

——that have the plain

Of ocean for their own domain.

The waves are lulling themselves to rest, and a balmy breeze is

wandering by, as if seeking its old grandfather, who kicked up the grand

rumpus last night; whereby I learn, that the offspring of a “rough and

stormy sire,” are sometimes very beautiful and affectionate to the

children of men. But look! even the dwellers in the sea and of the sea

are participating in the hilarity of this bright summer morning! Here, a

school of herring are skipping along like a frolicsome party of

vagabonds as they are,—and yonder a shark has leaped out of the water,

to display the symmetry of his form and the largeness of his jaw, and

looking as if he thought, “that land-lubber would make me a first rate

breakfast;” there, a lot of porpoises are playing “leap-frog,” or some

other _outlandish_ game; and, a little beyond them, a gentleman

sword-fish is swaggering along to parts unknown, to fight a duel in cold

blood with some equally cold-blooded native of the Atlantic; and now, a

flock of gulls are cleaving their course to the south, to the floating

body perhaps of a drowned mariner, which their sagacity has discovered a

league or two away:—and now, again, I notice a flock of petrels,

hastening onward to where the winds blow and the waves are white. Such

are the pictures I beheld in my brief period of command. It may have

been but fancy, but I thought my little vessel was trying to eclipse her

former beauty and her former speed. One thing I know, that she “walked

the water like a thing of life.” I fancied, too, that I was the

identical last man whom Campbell saw in his vision, and that I was then

bound to the haven of eternal rest. But my shipmates returning from the

land of Nod, and a certain clamor within my own body having caught my

ear, I became convinced that to break my fast would make me happier than

anything else just at that time, and I was soon as contented as an

alderman at five P. M. About two hours after this, we reached our

fishing-place, which was twenty miles east of Nantucket. We then lowered

the jib and topsail, and having luffed and fastened the mainsheet, so

that the smack could easily float, we hauled out our lines and commenced

fishing, baiting our hooks with clams, of which we had some ten bushels

on board. Cod fishing (for we were on a codding cruize) is rather dull

sport; it is, in fact, what I would call hard labor. In six hours we had

caught all the skipper wanted, or that the well would hold, so we made

sail again, bound to New York; and at supper-time the deck of our smack

was as clean and dry as if it had never been pressed save by the feet of

ladies. At sunset, however, a fierce southerly wind sprang up, so that

we were compelled to make a harbor; and just as I am closing this

record, we are anchoring off Nantucket, with a score of storm-beaten

whalers on our starboard bow.

_Wednesday Evening._ The weather to-day has been quite threatening, and

the skipper thought it best to remain at our moorings; but with me the

day has not been devoid of interest; for, in my sailor garb, I have been

strolling about the town, studying the great and solemn drama of life,

while playfully acting a subordinate part myself. This morning, as it

happened, I went into the public graveyard, and spent an hour conning

over the rude inscriptions to the memory of the departed. In that city

of the dead I saw a number of the living walking to and fro, but there

was one who attracted my particular attention. He was a sailor, and was

seated upon an unmarked mound, with his feet resting upon a smaller one

beside it, his head reclined upon one hand, while the other was

occasionally passed across his face, as if wiping away a tear. I hailed

him with a few kind questions, and my answer was the following brief

tale:—

“Yes, sir, four years ago I shipped aboard that whaler, yonder, leaving

behind me, in a sweet little cottage of my own, a mother, a wife, and an

only boy. They were all in the enjoyment of good health, and happy; and,

when we were under sail, and I saw from the mast-head how kindly they

waved their handkerchiefs beside my door, I, too, was happy, even in my

hour of grief. Since that time I have circumnavigated the globe, and

every rare curiosity I could obtain, was intended for my darling ones at

home. Last Saturday our ship returned, when I landed, flew to my

dwelling, and found it locked. The flagging in my yard attracted my

notice, and I thought it strange that the rank grass had been suffered

to grow over it so thickly. The old minister passed by my gate, and

running to him with extended hand, I inquired for my family. ‘Oh, Mr.

B.,’ said he, ‘you must bless the Lord;—he gave them to you, and he

hath taken them away.’ And as the thought stole into my brain, my

suffering, sir, was intense, and I longed to die. And there they are, my

wife and darling child, and, a step or two beyond, my dear old mother.

Peace to their memories!”

Such is the simple story I heard in the Nantucket graveyard, and I have

pondered much upon the world of woe which must have been hidden in the

breast of that old mariner.

After dinner to-day, I strolled into the company of some fishermen who

were going after bass and bluefish, and in a short time I had captured,

with my own hands, two big bass and some dozen bluefish—which I packed

in ice as a present to some New York friends.

At my present time of writing, which is near ten o’clock at night, we

are weighing anchor, and the skipper tells me we shall be in New York by

to-morrow’s sunset. An hour before coming on board this evening, I

lounged into a sailor boarding-house, and mingled as freely with a

company of whalemen there, as if I had ever been a _bonâ fide_ member of

the craft. I heard a great deal that interested me, and was sorry that I

could not remain longer. There were some in that company lately arrived

from every portion of the world, and yet they were engaged in the same

business, and had journeyed on the same mighty highway of nations. One

was descanting upon the coral islands of the torrid zone; another upon

the ice-mountains of the Arctic Sea; a third was describing the coast of

California; and another the waters that lave the eastern shore of Asia.

The more I listened to these men, the more did the immensity of ocean

expand before my mind, and in the same proportion was I led to wonder at

the wisdom of the Almighty.

I have just been on deck, and find that we are on the way to our desired

haven, wafted by a steady and pleasant breeze. Our course is between

Martha’s Vineyard and Rhode Island, which is a route studded with

islands and seaports, that now appear in the cool starlight like the

pictures of a dream.

_Thursday Evening._ Instead of coming through the Sound last night, we

headed our vessel outside of Long Island, and after a delightful sail,

have realized our skipper’s promise, for we are now floating beside the

market in New York. The reason assigned for taking the outside course

was, that the fish would keep better, on account of the greater coldness

of the water. Nothing of peculiar interest has happened to us to-day,

except the meeting with a wreck off Sandy Hook. It was the hull of a

large ship, whose name we could not discern. It had a very old

appearance, and from the moss and sea-weed that covered it, we supposed

it must have been afloat for many months, the plaything of the waves.

“Man marks the earth with ruin,” but who is it that scatters such

splendid ruins upon the ocean? And a thousand remorseless surges echo

back the answer: “To us belong the glory of those deeds.” If that wreck

had language, what a strange, eventful history would it reveal! Its

themes would be,—home and all its treasures lost; the sea, and all its

dangers; the soul, and all its agonies; the heart, and all its

sufferings. But when we multiply all this as fast as time is multiplying

it, we cannot but realize the idea, that human life is but a

probationary state, and that sorrow and sighing are our earthly

inheritance.

_Friday Evening._ After portioning out my fish this morning, and sending

them to my friends, I put on my usual dress, and having obtained a six

hours’ furlough, set off towards Broadway, where, between the reading

rooms and the studios of a few artists, I managed to spend my time quite

pleasantly. At noon, we embarked for home, and had a delightful time,

passing through the East River, and that pleasing panorama from the city

to the Sound never appeared more beautiful.

It is now quite late, and I have been on deck all the evening alone. In

a thoughtful mood I fixed my eyes upon the stars, and my spirits were

saddened by the continual murmur of the sea. Of what avail, thought I,

is all this excitement? Why was I created, and what, O what is my

destiny? Is it to sail for a few brief years longer upon the ocean of

life, and, when the death-tempest overtakes me, to pass away unloved and

unremembered by a single human heart? If not an honored name, can I not

leave behind me an humble memory that will be cherished by a few, a very

few, to whom I have laid bare my innermost soul, when I was younger than

I am now and a hundred-fold more happy? What! O night! what is my

destiny?

_Saturday Evening._ We anchored off New London to-day, in time for me to

take the evening steamer for Norwich. When I parted with my “shipmates,”

I shook each one affectionately by the hand, and thought that I might

travel many years without finding a brotherhood of nobler men. I reached

home as the eight o’clock bells were ringing, and was reminded that

another week of precious time was forever gone. That it must be

remembered as an unprofitable one, I cannot believe, for I feel that my

soul has been enlarged and my heart humbled, by listening to the

teachings of the mighty deep.

THE END.

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Missing quotes and printer errors have been corrected including: a

missing paragraph break; missing periods; and commas for periods.

Inconsistencies in the use of hyphenated words have been maintained

including: waterfall, water-fall, water-falls, and waterfalls; torch

light, torch-light, and torchlight; and, apiece and a-piece.

Author spellings of words such as "Shakspeare" are maintained.

[The end of _A Tour to the River Saguenay, in Lower Canada_, by Charles

Lanman.]