PETTY HARBOR.—THE MOUNTAIN RIVER.—COD-LIVER OIL.—THE EVENING
RIDE BACK TO ST. JOHNS.
TO venture a geological remark: All these coast highlands correspond
with the summits of the Alleghenies, and with those regions of the
Cordilleras, C—— tells me, which are just below the snow-line. From
the sea-line up to the peak, they correspond with our mountains above
the upper belt of woods. Their icy pinnacles and eternal snows are
floating below in the form of icebergs. Imagine all the mid-mountain
region in the deep, and you have the Andes here.
We descended in a zigzag way into a deep gorge, one of those cuts
through the shore mountains from inland regions to the sea, which
occasionally become fiords or narrow bays. Along the rocky steps,
resembling galleries, were patches of grass and beds of flowering
mosses, with springs bubbling up in the spongy turf, and spinning
themselves out into snowy threads from the points and edges of the
crags. At the bottom is the little village of Petty Harbor, where the
river, a roaring torrent, meets the salt tide. We alighted at a cottage,
Swiss-like among the rocks, before we were quite down, and were pleased
to hear Mr. Shea, whose guests we were, making arrangements with a
nice-looking woman for an abundant supper, on our return. Mr. S., in
company with several persons who now joined us from St. Johns, then
proceeded to show us the lions of the place, or lion rather, for every
thing and everybody are run up into, and knit into one body, the
fishery.
In the first place, we were struck with the general appearance of
things. The fishing flakes completely floor the river, and ascend in
terraces for a short distance up the sides of the vale. Beneath these
wide, evergreen floors, upon which was fish in all states, fresh from
the knife, and dry enough for packing, ran the river, a brawling stream
at low tide, and deeper, silent water when the tide was in. We could
look up the dark stream, and see it dancing in the mountain sunshine,
and down through the dim forest of slender props, and catch glances of
the glittering sea. Boats were gliding up out of the daylight into the
half-darkness, slowly sculled by brown fishermen, and freighted with the
browner cod, laced occasionally with a salmon. In this wide and
noiseless shade, these cool, Lethean realms, sitting upon some
well-washed boulder, one might easily forget the heat and uproar of all
cities, and become absorbed in the contemplation of merely present and
momentary things. If one doubts it, let him immerse himself for half an
hour, in those still and gloomy shadows, strongly seasoned with “ancient
and fish-like smells.” Should he be able to reflect upon the absent, or
engage his thoughts upon any thing except that which most immediately
affects his senses, he will possess a power of abstraction which a
philosopher and a Brahmin might envy.
In the course of our walk we visited a cod-liver oil manufactory. The
process of making this article is quite simple. The livers, fresh from
the fish, and nearly white, are cleanly washed, and thrown into a
cauldron heated by steam instead of fire, where they gradually dissolve
into oil, which is dipped out hot and strained, first through conical
felt bags, and then through those made of white moleskin, from which it
runs pure and sweet as table-oil. Wine-glasses were at hand, from which
we tasted it, and found it entirely agreeable. In this state it is
barrelled for market, and sold at an average price of one dollar and
fifty cents per gallon. By what process it is transmuted into that
horrid stuff which is sold at a high price, in small bottles, perhaps
the druggist can inform us. When I mentioned the character of cod-liver
oil in New York, a gentleman present, qualified to decide, did not
hesitate to say that it was adulterated with some cheap, base oil. Near
by a fish-house, there is ordinarily seen a row of hogsheads open to the
sun, and breathing smells that none but a fisherman can abide. A near
approach discovers these casks to be filled with cod livers in a state
of fermentation. After a few days in the sun, these corpulent and sweaty
vessels yield a rancid, nauseous fluid, of a nut-brown hue, at a much
less cost than the refined oil of the manufactory, and which, I imagine,
must have a flavor not unlike that which the invalid finds lurking in
those genteel flasks on the apothecary’s shelves. After all, our common
whale-oil, I suspect, after some cleansing and bleaching, and slight
seasoning with the pure, is bad enough for sick people.
The catch, as the fisher terms the number of fish taken, was small that
day, and we encountered, here and there, knots of idle men, smoking,
chewing, whittling and talking. For the most part, they were a russet,
tangle-haired and shaggy-bearded set, shy and grum at first, but
presently talkative enough, and intelligent upon all matters in their
own little world. Fish were so glutted with capelin that they would not
bite well. The seines did better. Among the dwellings that we passed or
entered, was one of a young English woman, of such exceeding neatness,
that the painter could not forget it. That fine-looking, healthy, young
English woman, with her bit of a house just as neat as wax, was often
spoken of.
Upon our return to the cottage on the hill-side, where we at first
alighted, we sat down, with sharp appetite, to a supper of fried capelin
and cods’ tongues, garnished with cups of excellent tea. We ate and
drank with the relish of travellers, and talked of the continent from
Greenland to Cape Horn. After supper, we climbed out of the valley, in
advance of the wagons and our company, to an eminence from which C——
sketched the surrounding scenery, more for the sake of comparison with
some of his Andean pencillings than for any thing really new. He
remarked that the wild and rocky prospect bore a strong resemblance to
the high regions of the Cordilleras.
While he was engaged with the pencil, I scrambled to a high place, and
looked at the Atlantic, touched with long shafts of the light and shade
of sunset. All arrived at length, and we were fairly on our way back to
St. Johns. I buttoned my coat tightly, and wound my cloak around me with
a pleasing sense of comfort in the clear and almost wintry air. All
talked somewhat loudly, and in the best possible good humor, our three
wagons keeping close company, and making a pleasant sound of wheels, as
we ran down our serpentine way among the hills and lakes, now darkening
in the dusk, and reflecting the colored skies. Although there was not a
water-fowl in sight, the words came to memory spontaneously, and I
recited them to myself:
“Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?”
As we approached the town, we were much amused with some boyish sports
of a new kind. We saw what appeared through the darkness to be balls of
fire, chasing each other down the craggy hill-side, but which turned out
to be a company of frolicsome boys with lighted torches, bounding down
the zigzag mountain road.