A MORNING RAMBLE OVER CARIBOO.—EXCURSION ON THE BAY, AND THE
TEA-DRINKING AT THE SOLITARY FISHERMAN’S.
TUESDAY, _July 12_. Cold as November, and a gale outside. After a late
breakfast, we roam the hills of Cariboo, under the cliffs of which the
Integrity now lies tied to the rocks. We gather roots and flowers, gaze
upon the vast and desolate prospect, count the icebergs, and watch the
motions of the fog driving, in large, cloud-like masses, across the
angry ocean. It is surprising how much we do in these, to us, almost
interminable days. But for the necessity of it, I believe that we should
not sleep at all, but work and play right on from midnight into morning,
and from morning down to midnight. We have a large afternoon excursion
before us. Previous to that, however, the Captain and myself are going
upon an exploring expedition.
Coasting the southern shores of St. Louis water, having a little private
amusement by ourselves. The breeze, in from sea, gives us about as much
as we can manage. Gives _us_ about as much as _we_ can manage! “Us” and
“We” have not a great deal to do with it. This half of the “us” and the
“we,” the Me and the subjective I, as your Kantian philosopher calls his
essential self, sits here about midship, bear-skinned in with a fleecy
brown coat, holding on, and dodging the spray that cuffs him on the
right and left; while the other, and vastly larger half, in the shape of
the captain, holds all the reins of this marine chariot in his own
single hand—ropes, rudder and all, and holds them, too, well and
wisely. But we enjoy the freedom of these spirited, though harmless
seas, and dash along through most charmingly.
What coasts these are! “Precipitous, black, jagged rocks,” savage as
lions and tigers showing their claws and teeth, and foaming at the lips.
Here is a chasm called a cove, up which the green water runs in the
shape of a scimetar or horn—the piercing and the goring of the sea for
unknown centuries. Away in the extreme hollow of this horn is a
fishing-flake, and half-way up, where the sea-birds would naturally
nest, a Scotch fisherman has his summer-home. We are going in to see
him.
He met us at the water’s edge, and welcomed us with a fisherman’s
welcome—none heartier in the world—and sent us forward by a zigzag
path to the house hidden away among the upper rocks. In the very
tightest place of the ascent, there swept down upon us an avalanche of
dogs furiously barking—a kind of onset for which I have had a peculiar
disrelish ever since I was overthrown by a ferocious mastiff in my
childhood. I sprang to the tip of a crag, and stood out of their reach,
while they bristled and barked at the Captain, who coolly maintained his
ground. The shout of the fisherman’s wife, who now appeared on the edge
of the scene above, instantly stilled the uproar, and invited us up with
the cheering assurance that they seldom bit anybody, and were rather
glad than angry that we had come. The language of dogs being very much
the same in all countries, I took occasion to doubt any pleasure that
Bull, Brindle, and Bowse were thought to have felt at our presence. The
rascals smelt closely at my heels and hands, with an accompaniment of
bristling backs and tails, and deep-throated growls. We were no sooner
in the house and seated than the good man himself arrived, and ordered
the kettle to the fire for a “bit of tea.” “It would do us good,” he
said, “When strangers came, he commonly had a bit of tea.” His life had
been a struggle for food and raiment: such was the tenor of his brief
history. Four children were with him; four were in a better world. Forty
years he had been a fisherman. Thirty, on these shores. They came up
yearly from Carbonear in the early days of June, cleared the house of
ice and snow, and got ready for the fish. Their dogs, which are their
only team in Newfoundland, would be lost if left behind, and so they
brought them along to save them. After tea, a fine game-cock took
possession of the floor, walking close in front, looking up sideways in
an inquisitive and comical manner, and crowing very spiritedly. Hard by,
in a box beneath a bed, I caught a glimpse of the red comb of a hen, his
only mate. A little, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed girl ran and brought her
out as something to surprise and delight us. And so with cock and hen,
and children, the fisherman and his wife, mariner and minister, we were
a social party. Thus the human heart spins out its threads of love, and
fastens them even to the far-distant rocks of cold and barren Labrador.
They took us through their fish-house, which hung like a birdcage among
the crags, and afterwards followed us down to the water, and gave our
bark a kindly push, “and thus we parted.”