and its legends—the region of bright eyes and strong arms—the land of
quiltings and huskings—of house-raisings and militia trainings, and the
home of savory roast pigs and stuffed turkeys, of fat geese, of apple
sauce, and pumpkin pies; the Ultima Thule to the Yankee’s imagination.
Now we are at Deerfield. While they are about our breakfast, we will run
across the road, and see the old Williams Mansion. A hundred years since,
it was surrounded by Indians, and its occupant, the clergyman, with his
family, carried off captives to Canada. Here is the very hole cut in
the front door by their tomahawks, and here the hacks of the hatchets.
Through this hole they ran their rifles, and fired into the house,
killing a man confined to his bed by sickness, and here is the ball
lodging to this day in the side of the wall—and this occurred one hundred
years ago! Say you, that the people that treasure up these legends, and
retain these memorials untouched, have no poetry in their souls? But
there goes the stageman’s horn! Our breakfast finished, we resume our
places at the side of the good-natured driver, and on we roll. We pass
Brattleboro’, snugly ensconced in its mountain eyrie, and Hanover, with
its broad parade, its flourishing colleges, and its inhabitants that
never die,—save from old age.
With teams of six and eight horses, we speed over hill, over dale, over
mountain, over valley, ascending and descending the mountains in full
run; our gallant horses almost with human instinct, guiding themselves.
Snorting leaders, swerve not aside in your career—linch-pins, do your
duty—traces and breeching, hold on toughly, or “happy men be our dole.”
Hah! Wild Amonoosac, we greet thy indeed wild roar.—How it sweeps
the fallen timber in its boiling eddies! The huge logs slide dancing
onwards with the velocity of the canoes of the Indian; or caught by
envious projection, or uplifting rock, form dams and cascades, till the
increasing and cumbrous masses, gathering momentum, plunge forward,
sweeping all before them,—and—but whist! Step into the shade of this
tree—look into the dark pool beneath those gnarled roots—how beautifully
the gold and purple colours glitter—how motionlessly still is the
head—how slight and tremulous the movement of that fin—the wavy motion
of the tail. A two pounder, as I am a Christian! Whist! whist! See that
dragon-fly, gently sailing o’er the surface—he rests a moment on it.
Watch! the head slowly turns—the fins move decidedly—ay—now—one rapid
whirl of the tail—an electric leap to the surface—Poor fly, thy history
is written; and well for thee, thou greedy trout, that no barbed hook
suspends thee in mid air—struggling in beauty, though in death, the prize
of exulting angler. And thou, too, art there, savage _Mount Franconia_,
with thy fantastic and human outline! Old Man of the Mountain!—with what
grim stoicism thou lookest down upon the busy miners, as with picks and
powder-blast they rive the sullen mineral from thy vitals. Ay! watch
thou by the lurid glare the sweating, half-naked forgemen, as they feed
with thy forests the roaring furnaces. Watch the molten ore, slowly
running in glittering streams, with fiery showers of scintillations into
the dark earth-troughs below; while with ceaseless din, the ponderous
trip-hammers, and clanking machinery, break the till now Sabbath
stillness of thy dwelling place. But fare thee well, thou imperturbable
old man; fare thee well, for now, we enter the dense continuous forest,
through which the busy hand of man has with unwearied industry cut the
avenue. How deliciously the aroma of the gigantic pines, mingles with
the pure elastic air of the mountains. See the thick undergrowth; the
dogwood with its snowy blossoms—the scarlet sumac—the waving green
briar, profuse with delicate roses,—the crimson raspberry, loaded with
its fruit—the yellow sensitive plant—the dancing blue-bell; and, rising
through the entangled mass of verdure and beauty, see the luxuriant wild
grape, and clinging ivy, joyously climbing the patriarchs of the forest,
encircling their trunks, and hanging their branches in graceful festoons
and umbrageous bowers.—No human foot, save with the aid of pioneer, can
penetrate its matted wildness—nought save those huge patriarchs rising
above it as they grow old and die, and fall with crashing uproar, as into
flowery sepulchre, intrude upon its solitude. Then, indeed, in heavy
booming plunge and rush, they seem to wildly sing, like their painted
children, their death song. But hark!—whence that wild and dissonant
shriek, that rings upon the ear? Ah—yonder, erect and motionless, he sits
upon the towering oak with haughty eye and talons of iron, screaming his
call of warning to his partner, slowly circling in graceful curves high,
high in the blue ether above him. Ay! proud bird, our nation’s emblem,
would that thy wild scream could warn from us, the accursed spirit of
Mammon, which, spreading like an incubus, blights and destroys with its
mildew the virtues and energies of her sons.
But see, where, as the dense forest stretches onward, the casual spark
dropped by the hand of the woodman, spreading into flame, and gathering
in mighty volumes of fire, has swept onwards in its roaring, crackling,
destroying progress, leaving nought behind it, save these grim and
blackened skeletons, and dead plains of ashes. See what darkness and
desolation, and apparent annihilation, extend around you—but yet,
silently and quietly, ere long, shall the germ of life which can never
die, rise from these ashes, and verdure and beauty reign again, as was
their wont. Even so the solitary mourner, when death strikes down at
his side his dearest ones, stands helplessly encircled by solitude and
desolation; but soon all-pervading benevolence causes the green germ
of the soul to rise from the ashes, and his heart again expands with
tenderness and sympathy.
The scene of desolation is passed! and now, lest the Lord of fire should
reign uncontrolled, lo! where the spirit of the whirlwind has swept in
his wild tornado. Lo! far as your vision can command the circle—where,
rushing from the mountain gorges his chariots have whirled along in their
fierce career of destruction. In mid height, the lofty trees are snapped
like pipe-stems, and prone like the field of grain laid by the hand of
the reaper, huge trunks with the moss of centuries,—not here and there
one solitary,—but for miles, the whole vast forest—prostrate, never again
to rise.
But speed! speed! the mountain passes are before us! See—see their
huge walls tower in chaotic wildness above us. Rocks on rocks—ledge on
ledge—cliff on cliff—plunged upon each other in frantic disorder. See—
“See the giant snouted crags, ho! ho!
How they snort, how they blow.”
See the huge rock ramparts shooting their wild peaks and jagged pinnacles
upwards, piercing the very sky above us! their frowning and gashed sides
trickling and discoloured with the corroding minerals in their bowels;
the stunted pines and evergreens clinging like dwarf shrubs in their
crevices. Take heed! beware you fall not. See the huge slides—they have
swept whole torrents of rocks, of earth, in promiscuous destruction, from
their summits, upon the valley below—the rivers filled, and turned from
their courses, in their path,—the very forest itself—the loftiest trees
torn up, their branches, their trunks, their upturned roots ground and
intermixed with rock and earth, and splintered timber, swept on in wild,
inextricable confusion—and here! where starting from their slumbers, the
devoted family rushed naked and horror-stricken to meet it in mid career.
Ay! hold on by the sides of the steep precipice—cling to the ledge as
the wild wind rushes by in furious gust—a slip were your passport to
eternity. Look down! How awful the precipice, thousands of feet below
you—how the blood curdles and rushes back upon the heart, as you imagine
the fatal plunge. Well might the Puritans of old, deem these ghastly
deserts the abode and haunts of the evil one.
But, on—on—how toilsome the ascent.—That was a fearful blast; hold
tightly the wild roots in thy grasp as it passes. Long since have we
passed the region of vegetation: the dry and arid moss clinging to rock
and stone, is alone around us. Ay! drink of that spring—but beware its
icy coldness—nor winter, nor summer, alters its temperature. Behold, in
the clefts and gorges below, the never-melting snow-wreaths. The flaming
suns of summer pass over, and leave them undiminished. Courage! we climb,
we climb. The witches of the Brocken ne’er had such wild chaos for their
orgies. Courage, my friend! We ascend—we ascend—we reach the top—now
panting—breathless—exhausted, we throw ourselves upon the extreme summit.
Gather your faculties—press hard your throbbing heart. Catch a view of
the scene of grandeur around you, before the wild clouds, like dense
volumes of steam, enclose us in their embrace, shutting it from our
vision;—mountains—mountains—rolling off as far as eye can reach in
untiring vastness—a huge sea of mountains held motionless in mid career.
How sublime! how grand! what awful solitude! what chilling, stern,
inexorable silence! It seems as if an expectant world were awaiting in
palpitating stillness the visible advent of the Almighty—mountain and
valley in expectant awe. Oh! man—strutting in thy little sphere, thinkest
thou that adoration is confined alone to thy cushioned seats—thy aisles
of marble; that for devotion, the Almighty looks to nought but thee?
Why, look thou there!—beneath—around—millions—millions—millions of
acres teeming with life, yet hushed in silence to thy ear—each grain
the integer and composite of a world—the minutest portion, a study—a
wonder in itself—lie before thee in awful adoration of their Almighty
Founder. Well did the Seers of old go into the mountains to worship.
Oh! my brother-man—thou that dost toil, and groan, and labour, in
continual conflict with what appears to thee unrelenting fate—thou to
whom the brow-sweat appears to bring nought but the bitter bread, and
contumely, and shame;—thou on whom the Sysiphean rock of misfortune seems
remorselessly to recoil—ascend thou hither. Here, on this mountain-peak,
nor King, nor Emperor are thy superior. Here, thou _art_ a man. Stand
thou here; and while with thy faculties thou canst command, in instant
comprehension, the scene sublime before thee, elevate thee in thy
self-respect, and calmly, bravely throw thyself into the all-sheltering
arms of Him, who watches with like benevolence and protection, the young
bird in its grassy nest, and the majestic spheres, chiming eternal music
in their circling courses!
BASS FISHING OFF NEWPORT.
Here we are at Newport—what a little gem of an island—rising like emerald
on sapphire, from the surrounding ocean. Neither at Potter’s nor at
Whitfield’s, will we take our abode. We will walk up to the Mall. Ay,
here, with its green blinds and scrupulously clean piazza, is old Mrs.
E——’s, and they are at tea already. Come, take your seat at table.
With what serene dignity and kindness the old lady, in her nice plaited
cap, her spotless kerchief, and russet poplin dress, her pin ball, with
its silver chain, hanging at her waist—presides at the board—crowded
with every imaginable homely delicacy—from the preserved peach and
crullers made by herself, to the green candied limes brought home by her
grandson from his last West India voyage. See the antique furniture,
with its elaborate carving, the mahogany-framed looking-glasses; and,
in the corner, on the round stand, the large Bible, carefully covered
with baize, surmounted with the silver spectacles. No place this for
swearing, duel-fighting, be-whiskered heroes; but just the thing for
quiet, sober folk, like you and me. What sayest thou, Scipio, thou ebon
angel,—that the ebb sets at five i’ the morning, and that old Davy Swan,
the fisherman, will be ready for us at the Long Wharf at that hour? Well,
get yourself ready and go along with us. Call us in season. Ay, that
will do—the roll of those eyes—the display of that ivory, to say nothing
of the scratch of that head, and the sudden displacement of that leg,
sufficiently evince thy delight.
So, so,—here we are, punctual to the hour. Ay, yonder he is in his broad
strong fishing-boat; yonder is old Davy Swan, as he was twenty years
ago; the same tall, gaunt figure, the same stoop in the shoulders,
bronzed visage, and twinkling grey eyes; the same wrinkles at the side
of his mouth, though deeper; the same long, lank hair, but now the sable
silvered; the same—the same that he was in the days of my boyhood. He
sees us. Now he stretches up to the wharf. Jump in—jump in. Be careful,
thou son of Ethiopia, or thy basket will be overboard—sad disappointment
to our sea-whet appetites some few brief hours hence. All in. We slide
gently from the wharf. The light air in the inner harbour here barely
gives us headway. Look down into the deep, still water—clear as crystal;
see the long sea-weed wave below; see the lithe eels, coursing and
whipping their paths through its entangled beds; and see our boat, with
its green and yellow sides—its long flaunting pennant—its symmetrical
white sails, suspended, as if in mid-air, on its transparent surface.
How still and tranquil lies the quiet town, as the sun gilds its white
steeples; and how comfortable look the old family mansions rising from
the green trees. How beautifully the yellow sun casts his shadows on the
undulating surface of the island, green and verdant—the flocks of sheep,
and browsing cattle, grouped here and there upon its smooth pastures. And
see, how yonder alike he gilds the land of the brave, the chivalrous,
the unfortunate Miantonimoh. We float past Fort Wolcott. Its grass-grown
ramparts, surmounted with dark ordnance, and its fields cheerful with
white-washed cottages and magazines.
Ay! now it breezes a little—now we gather headway—and now we pass the
cutter. See her long, taper, raking masts, her taut stays and shrouds;
and hear, as the stripes and stars are run up to her gaff, the short
roll of the drum, the “beat to quarters.” Hah! Davy,—old fellow, dost
remember that note last war? How many times, at midnight, we’ve sprang
from our beds as that short, quick “rub-a-dub” warned us of the approach
of the blockading frigates, as they neared the town. But, no, no,—forgive
me, old tar,—I recollect, indeed, thou then wast captain of thy gun,
on board the dashing _Essex_. Ay! well now do I remember, brave old
sailor, thy conduct in her last desperate battle. Eighteen men hadst thou
killed at thy single gun. I think I see thee now, as grimed with powder,
spattered with blood, thou didst advance, through fire and smoke, and
approach thy saturnine commander on the quarter-deck. I hear thy brief,
business-like request, “A fresh crew for Number Three, Second Division.
All my men are killed!” And the short, stern response, “Where is your
officer?” “_Dead_,—swept overboard by cannon shot.” And well can I see
the momentary play of anguish round his mouth, as, resuming his hurried
walk, he gloomily replies, “I have no more men—you must fight your gun
yourself!” Ay—and as thy proud ship a helpless target lay, for twice
superior force, I hear poor Ripley, thy brave comrade, severed almost in
twain by cannon shot, crying, with short farewell—“Messmates, I am no
longer of use to myself or country,” as he throws himself, his life-blood
gushing, overboard.
But now the wind freshens—the smooth surface darkens—the sails belly out
in tension, and the white ripples gather under our bows. We round the
point: Fort Adams, we pass thy massive walls, thy grim “forty-two’s”
glaring like wild beasts, chained, ready to leap upon us from their
casements. Ay—now we run outside—now it freshens—now it breezes—she
begins to dance like a feather. There it comes stronger! see the white
caps! There she goes—scuppers under—swash—swash—swash—we jump from wave
to wave, as we run parallel with the shore, our pennant streaming proudly
behind us. Here it comes, strong and steady—there she takes it—gunwale
under—luff, old fellow! luff up, Davy! or you’ll give us all wet jackets.
Ay! that will do—she’s in the wind’s eye. How the waves tumble in upon
the land—see the Spouting Rock—see the column of white foam thrown up,
as repulsed, the waves roll out again from the rocky cavern. We near
the Dumplings—and, round to! round to! here are the lobster-pots—haul
in—tumble them in the bottom of the boat—ay—there’s bait enough. Now we
lay our course across to Beaver Light—we slide, we dash along—springing
from wave to wave—dash—dash—no barnacles on her bottom at this rate,
Davy. Ay, here we are—a quick run—a good quick run. Anchor her just
outside the surf—ay, that will do—give her a good swing—let her ride
free—she rolls like a barrel on these long waves. Look to your footing,
boys—steady—steady. Now, then, for it. Davy, you and Scip will have as
much as you can do to bait for us—all ready. Here goes then—a good long
throw—that’s it—my sinker is just inside the surf. What!—already! I’ve
got him—pull in, pull in—see, my line vibrates like a fiddle-string!—pull
away—here he is—_Tautaug_—three-pounder. Lie you there—ay, slap away,
beauty, you have done for ever with your native element. There, again—off
with him. Again—again—again. This is fun to us, but death to you,
ye disciples of St. Anthony! Give me a good large bait this time,
Scipio—that will do—now, whis-whis-whis-te—that’s a clean, long throw.
By Jupiter! you have got a bite with a vengeance. Careful—give him more
line—let it run—play him—ease—ease the line around the thole-pin; he’ll
take all the skin of your fingers else. Pull away gently—there he runs.
Careful, or you lose him—play him a little—he begins to tire—steady,
steady—draw away—now he shoots wildly this way—look out! there he goes
under the boat; here he is again. Steady—quick, Davy, the net;—I’ve got
it under him—now then, in with him. Bass! twenty pounds, by all the
steel-yards in the old Brick Market! Ay, there they have got hold of
me; a pull like a young shark; let it run—the whole line is out—quick,
quick—take a turn round the thole-pin—snap! There, Davy! there goes
your best line, sinker, hooks and all. Give me the other line. Ah,
ha!—again—again—again. This is sport. One—two—three——nine Bass, and
thirty Tautaug. So—the tide won’t serve here any longer; we will stretch
across to Brenton’s Reef, on the other side. Up anchor, hoist away the
jib. Here we go, again coursing o’er the blue water. How the wind lulls.
Whew—whew—whew—blow wind, blow! Put her a little more before it; that
will do. Hallo, you, Scipio! wake up—wake up. Here we are, close on the
reef—give her plenty of cable. Let her just swing clear, to lay our
sinkers on the rocks. That will do. How the surges swell, and roar, and,
recoiling, rush again boiling on the rocks. So—so, they don’t bite well
here to-day. The tide comes in too strong flood; well, we can’t complain,
we have had good sport even as it is. Come, Africa, bear a hand; let’s
see what you have got in that big basket. Come, turn out, turn out. Ham,
chicken, smoked salmon, bread and butter; and in that black bottle?—ay,
good old brown stout? Pass them along—pass them along, and wo be unto
thee, old fellow, if thy commissariat falls short.
BRENTON’S REEF.
With what sullen and continuous roar the ocean waves heave in upon this
inhospitable reef. See, as they recede, how the long slimy rock-weed
hangs dripping, and how deeply the returning surge buries it again. Oh,
never shall I forget the scene upon this horrid reef, witnessed in my
boyhood. A dark portentous day in autumn, was followed in the evening
by a terrific storm. Low, muttering thunder, which had been growling
in the distant horizon, as the night set in, grew louder. The perfect
stillness which had obtained, as if in preparation, was broken by long
moaning sighs; the lightning became quick and incessant, and ere long,
the tempest, like an unchained demon, came bounding in from Ocean. The
lightning intensely vivid, accompanied by crashing and terrific thunder,
illuminated the surrounding coast with glittering splendour; the islands,
the rocks, and yon beacon tower, now exposed to brightness, surpassing
noon-day, and now plunged into blackest darkness. The ocean appeared a
sea of molten fire. Rain—hail—dashed hissing by, and mid the screaming
of the blast, and the torrents rushing from the skies, the huge waves
plunged, and roared, and lashed in milky whiteness, broke mast high
upon these horrid rocks. While the fishermen in their cottages were
thanking their stars that they were snug and safe on shore, we heard in
the temporary lulls of the howling storm, signal guns of distress. The
neighbouring inhabitants, myself among the number, were soon upon that
point, and by the glittering flashes within musket shot of the shore,
discerned a Spanish ship on the very ridge of the frightful reef—the
stumps of her masts alone remaining—the surf running and breaking in a
continual deluge over her, while in her fore shrouds were congregated
the unhappy crew. She was so near to us, that we could almost see the
expression of agony in their countenances, as, with extended hands they
piteously shrieked for help. Their situation was hopeless. We could do
nothing for them. No whale-boat could have lived for a moment, the surf
rolled in with such resistless violence. We could only listen in silent
horror. We heard the very grinding of her timbers, as shock on shock
hastened her dissolution; and amid the fury of the storm, and their
frantic cries for aid, never shall I forget, in the momentary lulls, the
sickening continuous wail of a young boy lashed in the mid-rigging,—his
supplicating exclamation, “Ai Jesus!—Ai Jesus!” Often, years after, in
my dreams, did I hear those plaintive cries, and see that young boy’s
face turned imploringly to Heaven, while that “Ai Jesus!—Ai Jesus!”
rang wildly in my ears. But a short time could human fabric sustain the
ceaseless plunge of the foaming elements. By the lightning flashes, we
could see the number of the sufferers lessen, as relaxing their hold,
they dropped off exhausted one by one—swept into the rocky caverns
below; until, a longer interval of darkness—a more intense flash of
lightning—and all had disappeared. Nought was left but the white foam as
it rushed tumultuously boiling and coursing over the long reef before
us. It was so brief—so hurried—the appearance of our fellow-creatures in
their agony, and their disappearance so sudden, that it seemed a feverish
dream. But the dead, mutilated bodies—ceroons of indigo and tobacco—and
broken planks, swept along the shore on the following morning, convinced
us of its sad reality.
The corse of the young boy, ungashed by the ragged rocks, I found, and
caused it to be buried apart from the rest in the church-yard, for it
appeared, as if there was in his childish helplessness, a claim upon
me for protection. That expression of agony I ne’er heard since—save
once: and that—but Davy, we have had all the sport we are like to have
to-day—get up the anchor, and we will fan along up to the harbour. So—let
her jibe—now put her before it—ay—that will do.—As I was saying. Shortly
after the close of the last war, buoyant with youth and hope, I made,
what was then not so common as now, the tour of Europe—lingering long in
Old Spain, fascinated with the romantic character of the countrymen of
Cervantes—of the gallant Moors—of the Alhambra and the Cid. It chanced
one evening, strolling about the streets of Madrid in pursuance of
adventure, that, passing through one of the most unfrequented squares,
I was attracted by lights shining through the long Gothic windows of a
large chapel or cathedral. I approached, and entering with some curiosity
found it entirely silent. No living soul was present within its walls.
The lofty chancel and altars were shrouded in mourning. By the wax
candles on the altars, I could see the fretted arches—the shrines and
monuments along the walls—and the family banners wreathed in gloomy
festoons above them. I wandered about, alone and uninterrupted. Nought
moved, save the old blood-stained flags, as they fitfully waived to and
fro in the wind. I gazed around me in admiration on the rich shrines
and their appropriate pictures. Here, with her offerings of flowers,
the wax candles, burning bright and clear, was the Madonna, her lovely
countenance beaming with celestial sweetness, as she looked down upon the
infant Saviour nestling in her arms—the Baptist standing at her knee,
pressing the plump little foot to his lips—and there, John in the island
of Patmos—his emaciated limbs staring from their scanty covering of
sackcloth—and his gaunt features glowing with inspiration, as from among
the cloud of scattered grey hair, and venerable beard, with upturned
face, he received from the flame-encircled trumpet above him, the Holy
Revelation.