_2d Fisherman_.--"Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea."
_1st Fisherman_.--"Why, as men do on land--the great ones eat up
the little ones."--PERICLES.
Ralph was now fairly installed as a member of the family of Mr. Barton.
He had found an opportunity, in the course of the evening of his
arrival, to exchange a few words of conversation with Ruth; and he was
now satisfied that the partiality with which, in former days, she had
regarded him, had not given place to indifference. The consciousness of
this fact amply repaid him for long years of absence, and led him to
look forward to such a future as only appears to the vision of those who
reason from the heart. The future, cold, impassable, dark, and filled
with mysterious dread, to him who has outlived the power of youthful
passion--to the young and the hopeful, is the unattained but attainable
region, where exist all the charms and raptures which can be bodied
forth by an ardent imagination. So different are the views of life which
can be made by a few active, busy years.
On the morning of the day after their arrival, Ralph and Ichabod,
accompanied by Barton, examined the farm and the improvements which had
been made by the energy of the latter. Some fifteen acres of forest had
already been cleared, and Sambo, on this morning, was engaged in still
farther invading the domains of the wilderness; and with his bare and
muscular arms was wielding the axe like a redoubtable soldier among a
multitude of enemies.
There is something pleasant to the eye in beholding the struggle of man
with the wilderness; to see old, mossy trees, that had stood for ages,
faithful guardians of the soil, whose long, leafy boughs and bushy
crowns, seemed to belong as much to the sky in which they waved and
nodded, as to the earth which sustained them, bow down their heavy heads
with a crash, that to the imaginative mind, seems, with its echoes, like
a mournful wail issuing from the surviving forest. As the tree falls,
the golden sunlight darts into a new and unexplored region, and the
melancholy forest abode recedes, as if pursued by an implacable enemy.
But it is a rescue of the earth from the long slumber of past time, and
an offering to the comforts and necessities of the future.
It is scarcely to be wondered at, that in earlier times, when the
imaginations of men overruled their powers of reason, the sombre,
melancholy forest abode was peopled with fanciful beings--children of
the shadow and of the forest--Fairies, Dryads, and Satyrs, with Arcadian
landscapes, and the good god Pan to preside over sylvan sports! But in
these days of utility, the reed of the shepherd and the music of the
sylvan gods are drowned in the clatter of saw-mills, and the hoarse song
of the woodchopper.
Ichabod, who had not forgotten the conversation of the previous evening,
endeavored, two or three times, to revive the project which on that
occasion he had proposed to Barton; but he was unsuccessful in his
attempts to renew the discussion. After a few hours thus spent, the
party returned to the cottage. Barton proposed, for the afternoon, a
fishing excursion upon the pond. "It is filled," said he, "with pickerel
and perch--both very delicious fish, and they are taken with the utmost
ease. This is just the season for them."
Ralph inquired if the streams contained any specimens of trout; and
Barton answered, "that the river contained some very fine specimens,
although they were not so numerous as in the smaller streams.
Occasionally we take pike, but they do not come so far up the river in
very large quantities. But," he continued, with a zeal that showed he
was not a stranger to the gentle art, "our brooks are filled--absolutely
filled--with trout. There is a stream, about a mile and a half west of
us, which comes from the northwest, through a wilderness, with which I
am almost wholly unacquainted, where they can be taken in great numbers.
In an hour, we can catch as many as it will be convenient to carry. If
you like, we will go over there to-morrow, or next day; but for to-day,
I am anxious to show you sport nearer by."
It was arranged, that in the afternoon the suggestion of Barton should
be followed; and hearing the latter giving some directions to Sambo,
which it will be unnecessary here to repeat, Ralph and Ichabod proceeded
leisurely towards the cottage.
"There is a charm, for me, about a life in the woods," said Ralph,
"which I cannot explain. Mingled with the idea of a nearer approach to
the Court of Nature, is that of separation from the passions and vices
of men in the world. One feels to exclaim with the Bard of Avon,
"Is not this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?"
"I don't dispute the general idea," said Ichabod, "about the sweetness
of a life in the woods. I have never tried it very much, but I always
have a different sort of feeling from usual when I find myself in the
forest; but I reckon that it can't be considered very patriotic for a
Captain in the Revolutionary Army to be quoting Shakspeare, or any
other British poet. What did _he_ know about _our_ woods? All the woods
he ever saw were but a child's play-ground compared with the eternal,
never-ending forests of America. As for me, if I've got any poetry to
quote, I can find enough of our own manufacture. I believe in the home
manufacture of _that_ article, just as much as I do in that of the other
kind we were talking about last night."
Ralph smiled at Ichabod's literary bigotry. He answered:
"I do not know any reasonable objection to our admiring the men of
genius of a foreign or hostile nation, or their writings. Men of genius
are the property of the world. Whatever they may think or say that may
delight and instruct one people, may equally delight and instruct all
others. We are yet in the infancy of the poetic art, and have produced
no poets capable of winning a world-wide reputation."
"That's precisely what the British say, Captain; and if I didn't know
that your heart was true as steel to the American cause, I should be a
little _jealous_ of you. No poets of reputation! Did you ever read
Freneau, Captain? To my mind, he's got more poetry in his little finger
than Shakspeare had in his whole body. Now, did Shakspeare ever write
anything equal to Freneau's "Antiquity of America"?"
And Ichabod began reciting, in a loud voice--
"'America, to every climate known,
Spreads her broad bosom to the burning zone;
To either pole extends her vast domain,
Where varying suns in different summers reign.'"
"That's the way the poem begins, and it fully keeps up its pitch all the
way through."
Ralph had some knowledge of the poetical compositions of Freneau, who
had really produced some poems, full of a fine, poetic feeling, and who
was much beyond the mass of his poetical contemporaries in this country;
yet, although he entertained a feeling of respect for the ability and
services of the revolutionary poet, he could not share the high degree
of admiration which Ichabod entertained for him.
"I'll grant," said Ralph, scarcely knowing how to reply to the irritated
Ichabod, "that Shakespeare never _did_ write precisely such a poem; and
I will admit that I do not believe he ever _could_ have written such an
one."
"I knew you were right at heart, Captain," exclaimed Ichabod, highly
elated over his equivocal victory. "Some of his verses have done as much
towards bringing down the British, as whole regiments of Continentals
could have done. But then, Freneau is only one of a whole circle of
poets. The British boast about their old ballads; now, I'll take an even
bet, that I can show 'em ballads, written here at home, that will make
'em ashamed. Why, we've had a woman that would eclipse 'em all, to my
mind--Mrs. Bradstreet, of whom another poet said:
"'Her breast was a brave palace, a broad street,
Where all heroic, ample thoughts did meet.'"
"Mrs. Bradstreet _did_ possess a sweetness of expression," said Ralph;
"and, with a higher cultivation, she might have written some fine
poetry."
"_Might_, Captain! Lord bless you, she did! Speaking of the Squire's
fishing expedition, what other poet ever said as fine things about
_fish_, for instance, as she did?
"'Ye fish, which in this liquid region 'bide,
That for each season have your habitation,
Now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide,
To unknown coasts to give a visitation.
In lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry:
So Nature taught, and yet you know not why,
You wat'ry folk that know not your felicity.'"
Ralph was much amused at the earnestness of Ichabod, and he did not wish
to irritate him by any depreciating criticism upon verses which he
considered so extraordinary; but remarked:
"An admiration of poetic productions depends very much upon the quality
of our taste. I presume that I have very little taste for such things;
but I do think that our ballad poetry has done us good service. Written
in a popular style, and sung or recited by men who _felt_ the particular
sentiments usually contained in them, these ballads have frequently
proved effective in inspiring a proper, natural feeling."
"Them's my sentiments, Captain," said Ichabod; "and I'm glad to see that
you're right on that p'int. We've got ballads on all sorts of subjects,
from the time of King Philip's war down to these days. Did you ever read
the ballad of 'Lovewell's Fight,' Captain? I call it a great poem. After
speaking of the valiant Captain Lovewell, it goes on to say:
"'He and his valiant soldiers
Did range the woods full wide,
And hardships they endured,
To quell the Indian's pride.
"''Twas nigh unto Pigwacket,
Upon the eighth of May,
They spied a rebel Indian
Soon after break of day.
He on a bank was walking,
Upon a neck of land
Which leads into a pond, as
We're made to understand.'
"It then goes on to describe the fight between the company and the
Injins that laid in ambush, and winds up with telling who and how many
were killed.
"'Our worthy Captain Lovewell
Among them there did die;
They killed Lieutenant Robbins,
And wounded good young Frye,'
while the rest of the company started for home;
'And braving many dangers
And hardship in the way,
They safe arrived at Dunstable,
The thirteenth day of May.'"
"Very good, Ichabod--very good! It is really quite American in style, as
well as theme."
"But good as it is, Captain, it isn't a circumstance to some of 'em.
There's 'Brave Pawling and the Spy,' and 'Bold Hawthorne,' and 'American
Taxation.' That last poem, Captain, has got the true essence of poetry
in it. If I was the author of that, I'd die content. The poem goes on to
say.
"'The cruel lords of Britain,
Who glory in their shame,
The project they have hit on
They joyfully proclaim;
'Tis what they're striving after,
Our rights to take away,
And rob us of our charter,
In North America.'
"Then 'two mighty speakers, who rule in Piedmont,' propose to King
George a plan for taxation of the colonies, to which the king accedes,
and says:
"'My subjects shall be taxed
In North America
Invested with a warrant
My publicans shall go,
The tenth of all their current
They surely shall bestow:
If they indulge rebellion,
Or from my precepts stray,
I'll send my war battalion
To North America.'
"Then the people of the colonies address King George, and implore him
not to tax 'em; and finally say that if he does they'll fight about it,
and that
"'We never will knock under,
O George, we do not fear
The rattling of your thunder,
Nor lightning of your spear;
Though rebels you declare us,
We're strangers to dismay;
Therefore you cannot scare us
In North America.'
"It's a great poem, Captain; it was written by a schoolmaster in
Connecticut."
"It is patriotic in tone," replied Ralph; "it has that merit, at least.
Are you much acquainted with the old poets of the country?"
"A little, Captain; I've read them all. Besides Mrs. Bradstreet, there's
Roger Wolcott, Nathaniel Ward, Mather Byles, Joseph Green, Peter
Foulger, old Michael Wigglesworth, and hosts of others. A splendid
galaxy, Captain! There's 'The Day of Doom; or, a Poetical Description of
the Great and Last Judgment,' by Wigglesworth. It _is_ rather strong on
the old New England religion, but as a piece of poetical work, it's
really great. Was anything ever more terrible than the description of
the final judgment? After the sentence is pronounced, before the
condemned,
"'They wring their hands, their caitiff hands,
And gnash their teeth in terror;
They cry, they war, for anguish sore,
And gnaw their tongues for horror;
But get away, without delay,
Christ pities not your cry:
Depart to hell--there ye may yell,
And war eternally.'
"We can admire poetry, sometimes, when we don't precisely approve of the
sentiments. Did you ever see a more terrific piece of writing than that,
Captain?"
"It is full of horrors, I must confess," said Ralph, who was beginning
to get weary at the extent of Ichabod's poetical recollections; "but we
are near the cottage, and we must now make our preparations for the
fishing expedition. Are you anything of a fisherman, Ichabod?"
"I can't say that I am, Captain. With all respect for the taste of other
people, it always looked to me like rather poor sport. A man may do
that, as he does anything else, for a livelihood; but, for sport, give
me a rifle, a sharp eye, and a practised hand. Howsomever, I am with
you."
The afternoon seemed to prepare itself expressly for the accommodation
of the fishing party. Light clouds covered the sky and a gentle south
wind just stirred the face of the water. Sambo had been to the river and
caught for bait a quantity of small white fish; and, equipped with hooks
and line, Barton, with Ralph and Ichabod, proceeded to the pond, where
they entered a boat that had been made by hollowing out two halves of a
large log, some three feet in diameter and attaching them together.
Barton paddled towards the north-west side, and advanced some fifteen or
twenty rods from the shore.
"In this portion of the pond," said he, "the pickerel are most abundant.
Perch are found in large quantities near the south-east shore."
They then fastened the bait, which had been kept alive, to the hooks,
and threw them overboard. Ichabod was a stranger to this manner of
fishing, and he watched the proceedings with an evident degree of
interest. Ralph had been accustomed to it in his boyhood and therefore
needed no instructions.
Seeing that Ichabod did not understand the course of operations, Barton
said to him, "It is necessary, usually, for the purpose of securing the
fish, whenever it strikes the bait, to allow it to run with the line for
a short distance, when it stops and endeavors to swallow its prey. If it
succeeds in doing so, or if it finds itself hooked, it then runs. Then
is the time to pull; pull slowly, but steadily, and you have him."
"Hallo! ive got one!" shouted Ichabod; and, mindful of the directions he
had just received, he commenced jerking and pulling violently on his
line. The fish, which was of good size, and would weigh from two to
three pounds, came struggling towards the boat, as if not anxious to
make a more familiar acquaintance with the party. "Ah you varmint,--you
Seneca!" shouted Ichabod. "Pull will you! I'll show you a trick worth
two of that!" He had just got the fish close to the side of the boat,
and was eagerly bent over to grasp him, if necessary, when the pickerel,
with a desperate struggle, that splashed the water in all directions,
broke loose, and darted with the rapidity of light, as it seemed to the
eyes of Ichabod, back into the pond. The excitement, and the sudden
release of the prisoner, nearly capsized Ichabod. He fell towards the
other side of the boat, and and had it not been for Ralph, would have
tumbled overboard.
"Hallo, there!" said Barton, laughing, "it's no use going into the water
after him; you cannot catch him that way."
Ralph also laughed heartily at the accident; and Ichabod, much
disconcerted, quietly fastened another bait, determined to succeed
better on the next trial.
Just then, a pickerel of large size darted at Barton's bait, and Barton
eased off his line, while the fish ran with it some eight or ten feet,
and then commenced its efforts to swallow the captive it had seized. It
would have been amusing to one who had no experience in the excitements
of that species of fishing, to have Seen the evident anxiety of Barton.
To the sportsman, the excitement is of such a degree as almost to obtain
the mastery of his calmness, when, with a dart like a flash of sunlight,
the pickerel seizes the bait, and flies so suddenly that one can
scarcely say he saw it; then comes the violent twitching and jerking of
the line, as the monster endeavors in its eagerness to devour its prey.
Barton waited patiently, until by the rapid motion of his line through
the water, it was apparent that the pickerel was disposed to make off,
either entirely satisfied or very much dissatisfied,--when, with a
steady pull, he assisted the captive in its escape, and brought it
slowly, but struggling violently, back to the boat. In a moment it was
lifted in, and the capture was completed. One would have supposed from
the appearance of Barton, that he had triumphed in some great encounter
in another and more important field of action. But it is true, although
perhaps not strange, that we enjoy with as keen a relish, a triumph,
when we contend only with trifles, if our success is owing to our own
skill or wisdom, as we do, where we triumph over greater obstacles with
less skill, but with the assistance of accident.
Barton and Ralph both had extensively "good luck," and the boat began to
be loaded with the fish they had taken. Ichabod, who for some time had
watched their operations with much interest, had, of late, become
silent, and seemed to pay little or no attention to the sport. His first
failure, and the success of the others, had disconcerted him somewhat;
and his want of luck began to make him think he was engaged in rather
dull business.
At an interval of cessation in their sport, which had now become a
little like labor, Ralph turned to Ichabod, and said,
"How now, Ichabod--did that pickerel run away with your spirits? Wake
up, man; what are you dreaming about?"
"Confound the varmints!" exclaimed Ichabod. "The pervarse cree'turs
ain't worth talking about, to say nothing about skirmishing here half a
day after 'em. Give me a chance at them deer yonder in the woods, or the
wolves I've heered of round here, and we'd have something to talk about,
I tell you."
"Well we'll give you a chance," said Barton laughing; "you shall have an
opportunity to triumph in your own field. You don't like
pickerel-fishing, then?"
"Pickerel-fishing," replied Ichabod gravely; "may be good sport for them
as likes it, and have a cunning that way; but you see, I don't look upon
it as a reg'lar large business any way. Give me the sports one can unite
with business. Now you see, the man that's a good shot on a deer, may be
jist as good a shot, providing he has steady nerves, on an Injin; but
you can't catch Senecas or Onondagas with this kind of bait. No, I don't
like it, Squire." And Ichabod drew back into his former position of
listlessness.
"I say, Squire," said he, in a moment, with a twinkle of his eyes, as if
he had hit upon a happy idea. "I say, Squire, there's one way you might
make this pond profitable. This wasn't put here merely to grow these
cussed varmints in. Things has their uses; and the uses of this body of
water isn't to cover fish spawn, as any man can see with half an eye."
"Well, Ichabod, any more factory projects?" asked Barton with an attempt
at composure.
"There isn't anything to laugh at in that idea," said Ichabod. "You
haven't thought of it as much as I have. But I tell you, Squire, you
might jist as well build up this country here, and make your own spec.
out of it, as to allow some body else to come in here, and do it; for
'twill be done, I tell you. A country like this can't be kept out of all
its advantages a great while, any way. Now, you see, this pond, Squire,
providing--I say, _providing_--you can get a proper fall of water from
it, as I reckon you can, would make a great chance for a mill privilege,
or something of that sort; and you see, Squire, if that could be done,
you'd have a supply of water here, that----Creation, what _have_ I got
hold on?" and Ichabod commenced tugging violently at his line; for he
evidently had caught something that offered much more than ordinary
resistance to his efforts. His struggles attracted the attention of both
Barton and Ralph, who came to offer him any assistance that might be
necessary.
"Slow! steady!" said Barton.
"Yes, yes," shouted Ichabod: "I'll have him now. Ah! here he comes--ugh!
what in creation----" and in his astonishment he dropped his line, which
began to make off rapidly from the boat.
"A turtle!" exclaimed Barton, "a mud-turtle!" seizing the line, and
pulling in the turtle, which would weigh eight or ten pounds. "You have
triumphed at last, Jenkins. Nobody else has caught a turtle to-day--and
so large a one, too. It is a real victory--another Saratoga," and he
laughed so heartily that Ichabod showed some symptoms of getting angry.
"_Con_-found the victory, Squire," said he, "I'll tell you what, Squire,
I don't handle them traps any more. If you want to see slaughter among
your bears and wolves, bring 'em on: but I've got through with this
cussed business, any how."
"But, without jesting, Jenkins," said Barton, "that turtle is worth more
for eating than all the fish we've got here--their meat is delicious;
and I prize them highly."
"If that's so, Squire," said Ichabod, "you're entirely welcome to it.
The varmint! I've seen 'em down in the settlements: but I never heerd of
eating 'em, before; _I'd_ feed 'em to Senecas."
"They would be very thankful for them," said Barton. "It isn't every day
they get a turtle like this."
The lines were all taken in, and as they were now sufficiently wearied,
the boat was paddled towards the shore, where Sambo was waiting to
receive the fish.
"Golly!" said the negro, grinning "who caught dis ere fellar? he! he!
he!" pointing towards the turtle.
"_I_ caught that varmint!" replied Ichabod, gravely.
"Guess massa Jenkins let he bait die," said Sambo. "Dose fellars don't
bite like pickerel, no how. How massa Jenkins manage?"
"Manage! you black devil," said Ichabod, angrily, "I'll feed you to him,
if you ask any more questions."
Ralph and Barton were very much amused at Ichabod's discomfiture, which
did not at all pacify him; but the party proceeded towards the cottage,
Sambo being careful to keep out of Ichabod's way; but many were the
grins which he made at his expense, behind his back. Ichabod gave up the
idea of ever being a fisherman; but, as he seemed to be extremely
sensitive on that subject, neither Ralph nor Barton saw fit to make any
particular allusion to it.