One bright December mid-day lately I spent down on the New Jersey
sea-shore, reaching it by a little more than an hour's railroad trip
over the old Camden and Atlantic. I had started betimes, fortified by
nice strong coffee and a good breakfast (cook'd by the hands I love, my
dear sister Lou's--how much better it makes the victuals taste, and
then assimilate, strengthen you, perhaps make the whole day comfortable
afterwards.) Five or six miles at the last, our track enter'd a broad
region of salt grass meadows, intersected by lagoons, and cut up
everywhere by watery runs. The sedgy perfume, delightful to my nostrils,
reminded me of "the mash" and south bay of my native island. I could
have journey'd contentedly till night through these flat and odorous
sea-prairies. From half-past 11 till 2 I was nearly all the time along
the beach, or in sight of the ocean, listening to its hoarse murmur, and
inhaling the bracing and welcome breezes. First, a rapid five-mile drive
over the hard sand--our carriage wheels hardly made dents in it. Then
after dinner (as there were nearly two hours to spare) I walk'd off in
another direction, (hardly met or saw a person,) and taking possession
of what appear'd to have been the reception-room of an old bath-house
range, had a broad expanse of view all to myself--quaint, refreshing,
unimpeded--a dry area of sedge and Indian grass immediately before and
around me--space, simple, unornamented space. Distant vessels, and the
far-off, just visible trailing smoke of an inward bound steamer; more
plainly, ships, brigs, schooners, in sight, most of them with every sail
set to the firm and steady wind.
The attractions, fascinations there are in sea and shore! How one dwells
on their simplicity, even vacuity! What is it in us, arous'd by those
indirections and directions? That spread of waves and gray-white beach,
salt, monotonous, senseless--such an entire absence of art, books, talk,
elegance--so indescribably comforting, even this winter day--grim,
yet so delicate-looking, so spiritual--striking emotional, impalpable
depths, subtler than all the poems, paintings, music, I have ever read,
seen, heard. (Yet let me be fair, perhaps it is because I have read
those poems and heard that music.)