we passed, bag and bundle in hand, along the regular Philadelphia
shortcut which leads through the bowels of the Courthouse, from the
Broad Street station to John Wanamaker's store. Philadelphians always
have the air of doing something very modern, hurried, and time-saving
when they lead you through that short-cut. But we were not really in a
hurry; we had all the time there is; we could afford to gape a little
in the shop-windows. The spasmodic Market Street trolley-car and the
deliberate Camden ferry-boat were rapid enough for us. The gait of the
train on the Great Sandy and Oceanic Railway was neither too fast nor
too slow. Even the deserted condition of Hummingtown, where we
disembarked about eleven o'clock in the morning, and found that the
entire population had apparently gone to a Decoration Day ball-game,
leaving post-office, telegraph station, fruit store, bakery, all
closed--even this failure to meet our expectations did not put us out
of humour with the universe, or call forth rude words on the degeneracy
of modern times.
Our good temper was imperturbable; for had we not all "escaped as a
bird from the hand of the fowler"--Master Thomas from the mastery of
his famous boarding-school in Old Chester, and Friends Walter and
Arthur from the uninspired scripture of their ledgers and day-books,
and I from the incubation of those hideous examination papers, and the
gentle Friend William from his--there! I have forgotten what particular
monotony William was glad to get away from; but I know it was from
something. I could read it in his face; in his pleased, communicative
silence; in the air of almost reckless abandon with which he took off
his straight-breasted Quaker coat, and started out in his shirt-sleeves
to walk with Walter, ahead of the cart which carried our two canoes and
the rest of us over to the river.
It was just an ordinary express wagon, with two long, heavy planks
fastened across the top of it. On these the canoes were lashed, with
their prows projecting on either flank of the huge, pachydermatous
horse, who turned his head slowly from one side to the other, as he
stalked along the level road, and looked back at his new environment
with stolid wonder. He must have felt as if he were suffering "a sea
change," and going into training for Neptune's stud. The driver sat on
the dashboard between the canoes; and Master Thomas, Arthur, and I were
perched upon the ends of the planks with our feet dangling over the
road. It was not exactly what one would call an elegant equipage, but
it rolled along.
The road was of an uncompromising straightness. It lay across the
slightly undulating sandy plain like a long yellow ruler; and on each
side were the neatly marked squares and parallelograms of the little
truck farms, all cultivated by Italians. Their new and unabashed frame
houses were freshly painted in incredible tones of carrot yellow, pea
green, and radish pink. The few shade trees and the many fruit trees,
with whitewashed trunks, were set out in unbending regularity of line.
The women and children were working in the rows of strawberries which
covered acre after acre of white sand with stripes of deep green. Some
groups of people by the wayside were chattering merrily together in the
language which Byron calls
"That soft bastard Latin
Which melts like kisses from a woman's mouth."
It was a scene of foreign industry and cheerfulness, a bit of little
Italy transplanted. Only the landscape was distinctly not Italian, but
South Jersey to the core. Yet the people seemed at home and happy in
it. Perhaps prosperity made up to them for the loss of picturesqueness.
At New Prussia the road was lifted by a little ridge, and for a few
minutes we travelled through another European country. Two young men
were passing ball in front of a beer saloon. "Vot's der news?" said one
of them in a strong German accent. We were at a loss for an answer, as
it was rather a dull time in international politics; but Master Thomas
began to say something about the riots in Russia. "Russia hell!" said
the young man. "How's der ball-game? Vas our nine of Hummingtown ahead
yet?" We could give no information on this important subject, but we
perceived that New Prussia was already Americanized.
A mile or so beyond this the road dipped gently into a shallow,
sparsely wooded valley and we came to a well-built stone bridge which
spanned, with a single narrow arch, the little river of our voyage. It
was like a big brook, flowing with deep, brown current out of a
thicket, and on through a small cranberry bog below the bridge. Here we
launched and loaded our canoes, and went down with the stream, through
a bit of brushy woodland, till we found a good place for luncheon. For
though it was long past noon and we were very hungry, we wanted to get
really into the woods before we broke bread together.
Scanty woods they were, indeed; just a few scrub pines growing out of a
bank of clean white sand. But we spread a rubber blanket in their thin
shade, and set forth our repast of biscuits and smoked beef and olives,
and fell to eating as heartily and merrily as if it had been a banquet.
The yellow warblers and the song sparrows were flitting about us; and
two cat-birds and a yellow-throat were singing from the thicket on the
opposite shore. There were patches of snowy sand-myrtle and yellow
poverty-plant growing around our table; tiny, hardy, heath-like
creatures, delicately wrought with bloom as if for a king's palace;
irrepressible and lovely offspring of the yearning for beauty that
hides in the poorest place of earth. In a still arm of the stream, a
few yards above us, was a clump of the long, naked flower-scapes of the
golden-club, now half entered upon their silvery stage.
It was strange what pleasure these small gifts of blossom and song
brought to us. We were in the mood which Wordsworth describes in the
lines written in his pocket-copy of "The Castle of Indolence":
"There did they dwell, from earthly labour free,
As happy spirits as were ever seen;
If but a bird, to keep them company,
Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween,
As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden-queen."
But our "earthly labour" began again when we started down the stream;
for now we had fairly entered the long strip of wilderness which
curtains its winding course. On either hand the thickets came down so
close to the water that there were no banks left; just woods and water
blending; and the dark topaz current swirling and gurgling through a
clump of bushes or round the trunk of a tree, as if it did not care
what path it took so long as it got through. Alders and pussy-willows,
viburnums, clethras, chokecherries, swamp maples, red birches, and all
sorts of trees and shrubs that are water-loving, made an intricate
labyrinth for the stream to thread; and through the tangle, cat-briers,
blackberries, fox grapes, and poison ivy were interlaced.
Worst of all was the poison ivy, which seemed here to deserve its other
name of poison oak, for it was more like a tree than a vine, flinging
its knotted branches from shore to shore, and thrusting its pallid,
venomous blossoms into our faces. Walter was especially susceptible to
the influence of this poison, so we put him in the middle of our canoe,
and I, being a veteran and immune, took the bow-paddle. It was no easy
task to guide the boat down the swift current, for it was bewilderingly
crooked, twisting and turning upon itself in a way that would have made
the far-famed Mæander look like a straight line. Many a time it ran us
deep into the alders, or through a snarl of thorn-set vines, or crowded
us under the trunk of an overhanging tree. We glimpsed the sun through
the young leaves, now on our right hand, now on our left, now in front
of us, and now over our shoulders. After several miles of this
curliewurlie course, the incoming of the Penny Pot Stream on the left
broadened the flowing trail a little. Not far below that, the
Hospitality Branch poured in its abundant waters on the right, and we
went floating easily down a fair, open river.
There were banks now, and they were fringed with green borders of
aquatic plants, rushes, and broad spatter-docks, and flags, and
arrow-heads, and marsh-marigolds, and round-leaved pond-lilies, and
pointed pickerel-weed. The current was still rapid and strong, but it
flowed smoothly through the straight reaches and around the wide
curves. On either hand the trees grew taller and more stately. The
mellow light of afternoon deepened behind them, and the rich cloud
colours of approaching sunset tinged the mirror of the river with
orange and rose. We floated into a strip of forest. The stream
slackened and spread out, broadening into the head of a pond. On the
left, there was a point of higher land, almost like a low bluff, rising
ten or twelve feet above the water and covered with a grove of oaks and
white pines. Here we beached our canoes and made our first camp.
A slender pole was nailed horizontally between two trees, and from this
the shelter tent was stretched with its sloping roof to the breeze and
its front open toward the pond. There were no balsam or hemlock boughs
for the beds, so we gathered armfuls of fallen leaves and pine needles,
and spread our blankets on this rude mattress. Arthur and Walter cut
wood for the fire. Master Thomas and William busied themselves with the
supper. There was a famous dish of scrambled eggs, and creamed
potatoes, and bacon, and I know not what else. We ate till we could eat
no more, and then we sat in the wide-open tent, with the camp-fire
blazing in front of us, and talked of everything under the stars.
I like the Quaker speech: the gentle intimacy of their "little
language," with its quaint "thees" and "thous," and the curious turn
they give to their verbs, disregarding the formalities of grammar.
"Will thee go," "has thee seen," "does thee like"--that is the way they
speak it; an unjustifiable way, I know, but it sounds pleasantly. I
like the Quaker spirit and manners, at least as I have found them in my
friends: sober but not sad, plain but very considerate, genuinely
simple in the very texture of their thoughts and feelings, and not
averse to that quiet mirth which leaves no bitter taste behind it. One
thing that I cannot understand in Charles Lamb is his confession, in
the essay on "Imperfect Sympathies," that he had a prejudice against
Quakers. But then I remember that one of his best bits of prose is
called "A Quaker's Meeting," and one of his best poems is about the
Quaker maiden, Hester Savory, and one of his best lovers and companions
was the broad-brim Bernard Barton. I conclude that there must be
different kinds of Quakers, as there are of other folks, and that my
particular Friends belong to the tribe of Bernard and Hester, and their
spiritual ancestry is in the same line with the poet Whittier.
Yet even these four are by no means of one pattern. William is the
youngest of the group, but the oldest-fashioned Friend, still clinging
very closely to the old doctrines and the old ritual of silent
simplicity, and wearing the straight-cut, collarless coat, above which
his youthful face looks strangely ascetic and serene. I can imagine him
taking joyfully any amount of persecution for his faith, in the ancient
days; but in these tolerant modern times, he has the air of waiting
very tranquilly and with good humour for the world to see that the old
ways are the best, and to come round to them again.
Walter and Arthur are Young Quakers, men of their time, diligent in
business, fond of music and poetry, loyal to the society of their
fathers, but more than willing to see its outward manners and customs,
and even some of its ways of teaching, quietly modified to meet the
needs and conditions of the present. In appearance you could hardly
tell them from the world's people; yet I perceive that inwardly the
meeting-house has made its indelible mark upon them in a certain poise
of mind and restraint of temper, a sweet assurance of unseen things,
and a mind expectant of spiritual visitations.
Master Thomas, the leader of our expedition, is a veteran
school-teacher, in one of the largest and most successful of the
Friends' boarding-schools. To him I think there is neither old nor new
in doctrine; there is only the truth, and the only way to be sure of it
is by living. He is a fervent instructor, to whom an indifferent
scholar is a fascinating problem, and a pupil who "cannot understand
mathematics" offers a new adventure. But part of his instruction, and
the part to which he gives himself most ardently, is the knowledge and
love of the great out-of-doors. Every summer he runs a guest-camp in
the Adirondacks, and in the fall he gives a big camp-supper for the old
pupils of his school, who come back by the hundred to renew their
comradeship with "Master Thomas." It is good to have an academic title
like that. Arthur and William and Walter are among his old boys, and
they still call him by that name. But it is partly because he has also
been their master in fire-making, and tent-pitching, and cooking, and
canoe-building, and other useful arts which are not in the curriculum
of book-learning.
Here, then, I have sketched the friends who sat with me before the
glowing logs on that cool, starry night, within a few miles of the
railroad and not far away from the roaring town, yet infinitely deep in
the quietude of nature's heart. Of the talk I can remember little,
except that it was free and friendly, natural and good. But one or two
stories that they told me of a famous old Philadelphia Quaker, Nicholas
Waln, have stuck in my memory.
His piety was tempered with a strong sense of humour, and on one
occasion when he was visiting a despondent sister, he was much put out
by her plaintive assertions that she was going to die. "I have no
doubt," said he finally, "but that thou will; and when thou gets to
heaven give my love to the Apostle Paul, and tell him I wish he would
come back to earth and explain some of the hard things in his
epistles." At another time he overtook a young woman Friend in worldly
dress, upon which he remarked, "Satin without, and Satan within." But
this time he got as good as he gave, for the young woman added, "And
old Nick behind!" When it was the fashion to wear a number of capes,
one above another, on a great-coat, Nicholas met a young acquaintance
dressed in the mode. Taking hold of one of the capes, the old Quaker
asked innocently what it was. "That is Cape Hatteras," said the pert
youth. "And this?" said Nicholas, touching another. "Oh, that is Cape
Henlopen," was the answer. "Then, I suppose," said Nicholas gravely,
pointing to the young man's head, "this must be the lighthouse." I
think that Charles Lamb, despite his imperfect sympathy with Quakers,
would have liked this turn to the conversation.
Bedtime comes at last, even when you are lodging at the Sign of the
Beautiful Star. There were a few quiet words read from a peace-giving
book, and a few minutes of silent thought in fellowship, and then each
man pulled his blanket round him and slept as if there were no troubles
in the world.
Certainly there were none waiting for us in the morning; for the day
rose fresh and fair, and we had nothing to do but enjoy it. After
fishing for an hour or two, to supply our larder, we paddled down the
pond, which presently widened into quite a lake, ending in a long, low
dam with trees growing all across it. Here was the forgotten village of
Watermouth, founded before the Revolution, and once the seat of a
flourishing iron industry, but now stranded between two railways, six
miles on either side of it, and basking on the warm sand-hills in a
painless and innocent decay.
Watermouth had done nothing to deserve ill fortune. But the timber
which had once been floated down its river was all cut and gone; and
the bog-iron which had once been smelted in its furnaces was all used
up; and the forest glass-makers and charcoal-burners who had once
traded in its store had all disappeared; and the new colonies of
fruit-growers and truck-farmers from Italy and Germany did not like to
settle quite so far from the railway; and there was nothing left for
Watermouth but to sit in the sun and doze, while one family after
another melted away, and house after house closed its windows and its
doors.
The manor-house stood in spacious grounds sloping gently down to the
southern shore of the lake, well planted with a variety of shade trees
and foreign evergreens, but overgrown with long grass and straggling
weeds. Master Thomas and I landed, and strolled through the neglected
lawn toward the house, in search of a possible opportunity to buy some
fresh eggs. The long, pillared veranda, with its French windows opening
to the floor; the wide double door giving entrance to a central hall; a
score of slight and indefinable signs told us that the mansion had seen
its days of comfort and elegance. But there were other signs--a pillar
leaning out of plumb, a bit of railing sagging down, a board loose at
the corner--which seemed to speak of the pluperfect tense. In a
fragment of garden at one side, where a broken trellis led to an arbor
more than half hidden by vines, we saw a lady, clad in black, walking
slowly among the bewildered roses and clumps of hemerocallis, stooping
now and then to pluck a flower or tenderly to lift and put aside a
straggling branch.
"This is plainly the mistress of the house," said Master Thomas; "does
thee think that we could make bold to speak with her upon the subject
of fresh eggs?"
"I think," said I, "that with thy friendly tact thee could speak with
anybody upon any subject."
"But my coat?" said Master Thomas, for he had left it in the boat.
"'Tis a warm day, Master Thomas," I answered, "and doubtless the lady
will know that thee has a coat, when she hears thee speak. But in any
event, it is wise not to think too much of these mundane things. Let us
go up."
So we made our salutations, stated our names and our occupations, and
described the voyage which had brought us to Watermouth, in a way that
led naturally to an explanation of our present need and desire for
fresh eggs: though indeed it was hardly necessary to be explicit on
that point, for our little tin pail betrayed us as foragers. The lady
in black received us with gracious dignity, identified and placed us
without difficulty (indeed she knew some relation of each of us), and
gave us hospitable assurance that our wants in the matter of eggs could
easily be satisfied. Meantime we must come up to the house with her and
rest ourselves.
Rest was not an imperative necessity for us just then, but we were glad
to see the interior of the old mansion. There was the long
drawing-room, with its family portraits running back into the
eighteenth century--one of them an admirable painting by Sully--and the
library, with its tall book-shelves, now empty, and engravings and
autographs hanging on the walls. The lady in black was rather sad; for
her father, a distinguished publicist and man of letters, had built
this house; and her grandfather, a great iron-master, had owned most of
the land hereabouts; and the roots and tendrils of her memory were all
entwined about the place; but now she was dismantling it and closing it
up, preparatory to going away, perhaps to selling it.
By this time the tin pail had come in, filled with the nutritious fruit
of the industrious and faithful hen. So we said farewell to the lady in
black, with suitable recognition of her courtesy and kindness, and not
without some silent reflections on the mutability of human affairs.
Here had been a fine estate, a great family, a prosperous industry
firmly established, now fading away like smoke. But I do not believe
the lady in black will ever disappear entirely from Watermouth while
she lives; for is there not the old meeting-house, a hundred years old
(with the bees' nest in the weather-boarding), for her to watch over,
and care for, and worship in?
The young men were waiting for us below the dam. Here was a splendid
water-power running away almost idle. For the great iron forge, with
its massive stone buildings, standing (if the local tradition is
correct) on the site where the first American cannon-balls had been
cast for the Revolutionary War, and where that shrewd Rhode Islander,
Gen. Nathanael Greene, had invested some of the money he made in army
contracts, had been put out of business many years ago by the
development of iron-making in North Jersey and Pennsylvania. An attempt
was made to turn it into a wood-pulp factory; but that had failed
because the refractory yellow pine was full of hard knots that refused
to let themselves be ground into pulp. Now a feeble little saw-mill was
running from time to time in one corner of the huge edifice; and the
greater part of the river out of work was foaming and roaring in
wasteful beauty over the gates of the dam.
It was here, on the slopes of the open fields and on the dry sides of
the long embankment, that we saw the faded remnants of the beauty with
which the lupins had surrounded Watermouth a few days ago. The
innumerable plants with their delicate palmate leaves were still fresh
and vigorous; no drought can wither them even in the dryest soil, for
their roots reach down to the hidden waters. But their winged blossoms,
with which a little while since they had "blued the earth," as Thoreau
says, were now almost all gone; as if a countless flock of blue
butterflies had taken flight and vanished. Only here and there one
could see little groups of belated flowers, scraps of the coerulean
colour, like patches of deep-blue sky seen through the rents in a
drifting veil of clouds.
But the river called us away from the remembrance of the lupins to
follow the promise of the laurels. How charming was the curve of that
brown, foam-flecked stream, as it rushed swiftly down, from pool to
pool, under the ancient, overhanging elms and willows and sycamores! We
gave ourselves to the current, and darted swiftly past the row of
weather-beaten houses on the left bank, into the heart of the woods
again.
Here the forest was dense, lofty, overarching. The tall silver maple,
the black ash, the river birch, the swamp white oak, the sweet gum and
the sour gum, and a score of other trees closed around the course of
the stream as it swept along with full, swirling waters. The air was
full of a diffused, tranquil green light, subdued yet joyous, through
which flakes and beams of golden sunshine flickered and sifted
downward, as if they were falling into some strange, ethereal
medium--something half liquid and half aërial, midway between an
atmosphere and the still depths of a fairy sea.
The spirit of enchantment was in the place; brooding in the delicate,
luminous midday twilight; hushing the song of the strong-flowing river
to a humming murmur; casting a spell of beautiful immobility on the
slender flower-stalks and fern-fronds and trailing shrubberies of the
undergrowth, while the young leaves of the tree-tops, far overhead,
were quivering and dancing in the sunlight and the breeze. Here Oberon
and Titania might sleep beneath a bower of motionless royal Osmunda.
Here Puck might have a noon-tide council with Peaseblossom, Cobweb,
Moth, and Mustardseed, holding forth to them in whispers, beneath the
green and purple sounding-board of a Jack-in-the-Pulpit. Here, even in
this age of reason, the mystery of nature wove its magic round the
curious mind of man,
"Annihilating all that's made,
To a green thought in a green shade."
Do you remember how old Andrew Marvell goes on from those two lovely
lines, in his poem?
"Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and claps its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light."