AFTER THE ICEBERG OF BELLE ISLE.—THE RETREAT TO CARTWRIGHT’S
TICKLE.—BRIDGET KENNEDY’S COTTAGE, AND THE LONELY STROLL OVER
CARIBOO.
WEDNESDAY, _July 13_. We rise with the intention of spending the day in
Belle Isle water to the south, around what we call the Great Castle
Berg—an object, from the first, of our particular regard. The breeze
freshens from the north, but the Captain thinks we may lie safely to the
leeward of the ice, and so sketch and write. Battle Harbor has a narrow
and shallow passage into the south water. We have slipped through that,
and are now scudding before a pleasant northeaster, directly toward the
castle, and the northern cape of Belle Isle. We are having a long
ground-swell, roughened with a “lop” or short sea, and the promise of
high wind. The fishing boats, more out to sea, are putting in—a signal
for our retreat. We confess ourselves beaten for the day, and run for
Cartwright’s Tickle, a small inlet, a mile or so distant. And a merry
run of it we are having; a kind of experience to which we were put
yesterday afternoon. Wet with spray, and chilly, we are glad to jump
ashore at Mrs. Bridget Kennedy’s fishing-flake.
Kind woman, she was on the spot to ask us up “to warm, and take a drop
of tea,” although no later than 10 o’clock. Mrs. Kennedy, a smart Irish
widow of Newfoundland, is “the fisherman;” and has men and maidens in
her employ. While the tea was really refreshing, and the fire
acceptable, the smoke was terrible—a circumstance over which I wept
bitterly, wiping away the tears with one hand, while I plied the hot
drink with the other. From this painfully affecting scene I was
presently fain to retire to a sunny slope near by, where I was soon
joined by my companion in suffering, who indulged himself, perhaps too
freely, in remarks that reflected no great credit on the architect and
builder of Mrs. Kennedy’s summer-house and chimney. I cannot say that we
wasted, but we whiled away, not overwillingly, the best part of two
hours, looking around—looking across a bight of water, at a nest of
flakes and huts on the hill-side, to which Swiss cottages are
tame—looking over upon the good woman’s garden, the merest spot of
black, in which there is nothing but soil slightly freckled with
vegetation, fenced in with old fish-net to keep out the fowls, and a
couple of goats—looking at the astonishment of our sailors over a
syphon, made from the pliant, hollow stalk of a sea-weed, through which
water flowed from the surface of the sea into a basin placed upon the
beach; quite a magical performance they fancied it, until explained.
Tired of waiting for the wind to lull sufficiently for an escape back by
sea, I resolved to foot it over the hills to Battle Harbor, and have
come off alone. I am sitting on the moss, out of the breeze, on the warm
side of a crag, “basking in the noontide sun; disporting here like any
other fly.” A part of the aforesaid amusement consists in scribbling
these notes, and especially the ones relating our enjoyments and trials
at hospitable Bridget Kennedy’s.
From the hill-top above me I had a wide prospect of the dark, rough
ocean; and of darker and rougher land. Looking westerly, what should I
discover but the painter, silent and motionless, looking out from
another hill-top? Beyond him, far inland, is a chain of purple
mountains, lording it over the surrounding tumult of brown and sterile
hills, in the mossy valleys of which, they say, are dwarf woods of birch
and spruce, pretty brooks, and reaches of blue sea-water.
I have turned my walk back to the vessel, into a regular holiday stroll,
jotting down from time to time whatever happens to please me. These deep
amphitheatres opening out of the hills to the sea, are quite charming,
and novelties in landscape. And how almost painfully still they are! But
for the dull roar of the surf, they would be silent as paintings. The
cloudless sun, pouring its July brightness into them, gives them a
hot-house sultriness; and, in their moist places, almost a hot-house
growth. The universal moss, the turf of the country, carpets their
depths and graceful slopes, and lies upon their shelves like the richest
rugs; bright red, green, and yellow, and sprinkled with small,
sweet-smelling flowers. Along the margin of the sea all is cracked and
slashed, and has no pretty beach. Here now is a fast little brook,
eagerly driving its spirited steed down one of these rocky cuts. Pleased
with its speed, it hurras and cracks its whip, and swings its
white-plumed cap, all in its way, as if rivers were looking on, and
cataracts were listening with delight. Silly rivulet! it sounds like
water in a mill-wheel, and will in a moment more be lost in the great
deep. Here again, a few steps higher up the vale, the rill expands into
a pool, daintily cushioned round its edges. I lie down and drink; kneel
down and wash my hands; wash my handkerchief and spread it in the sun to
dry. Poor little fishes! They dart and dodge about, as if they had never
felt before the look of a human face. Over there is a bed of grass,
luxuriant as grain, with a sprinkling of those cotton-tufted rushes. And
I sing, as I sang in my boyhood:
“Green grow the rushes, O!
’Tis neither you nor I do know,
How oats, peas, beans, and barley grow.”
After this lyrical feat, I straighten up, and look all around, to see if
any one hears me, but only catch a glimpse of a tiny waterfall; a little
virgin all in white, spinning her silvery thread, as she looks out of
her chamber window among the rocks above. For all the world! Here comes
a fly—one of our own house flies—the same careless, familiar fellow,
whose motto is: “The dwelling owes me a living.” Now what do you expect,
you self-complacent little vagabond, standing here on my hand, and
rubbing your head at this rate, looking me in the face, with all the
thousand eyes you have, and none of the modesty of bugs finely dressed,
and vastly your superior? I do suppose myself the first Yankee here, and
here you are. Away with you! I have a mind to run up yonder soft and
sunny hill-side, and roll over and over to the bottom. I did run up the
hill-side, but not to roll back to the foot of it, on this most springy
of all turfs. I sat down and panted, wiping the moisture from my
forehead, and breathing the cool ocean breeze. A half hour’s walk
brought me over to the brow of the mountain, with the harbor and its
vessels at my feet.