Among the mountains there is a gorge. And in the gorge there is a river.
And in the river there is a pool. And in the pool there is an island.
And on the island, for four happy days, there was a camp.
It was by no means an easy matter to establish ourselves in that lonely
place. The river, though not remote from civilisation, is practically
inaccessible for nine miles of its course by reason of the steepness of
its banks, which are long, shaggy precipices, and the fury of its
current, in which no boat can live. We heard its voice as we approached
through the forest, and could hardly tell whether it was far away or
near.
There is a perspective of sound as well as of sight, and one must have
some idea of the size of a noise before one can judge of its distance. A
mosquito’s horn in a dark room may seem like a trumpet on the
battlements; and the tumult of a mighty stream heard through an unknown
stretch of woods may appear like the babble of a mountain brook close at
hand.
But when we came out upon the bald forehead of a burnt cliff and looked
down, we realised the grandeur and beauty of the unseen voice that we
had been following. A river of splendid strength went leaping through
the chasm five hundred feet below us, and at the foot of two snow-white
falls, in an oval of dark topaz water, traced with curves of floating
foam, lay the solitary island.
The broken path was like a ladder. “How shall we ever get down?” sighed
Greygown, as we dropped from rock to rock; and at the bottom she looked
up sighing, “I know we never can get back again.” There was not a foot
of ground on the shores level enough for a tent. Our canoe ferried us
over, two at a time, to the island. It was about a hundred paces long,
composed of round, coggly stones, with just one patch of smooth sand at
the lower end. There was not a tree left upon it larger than an
alder-bush. The tent-poles must be cut far up on the mountain-sides, and
every bough for our beds must be carried down the ladder of rocks. But
the men were gay at their work, singing like mocking-birds. After all,
the glow of life comes from friction with its difficulties. If we cannot
find them at home, we sally abroad and create them, just to warm up our
mettle.
The ouananiche in the island pool were superb, astonishing, incredible.
We stood on the cobble-stones at the upper end, and cast our little
flies across the sweeping stream, and for three days the fish came
crowding in to fill the barrel of pickled salmon for our guides’ winter
use; and the score rose,—twelve, twenty-one, thirty-two; and the size of
the “biggest fish” steadily mounted—four pounds, four and a half, five,
five and three-quarters. “Precisely almost six pounds,” said Ferdinand,
holding the scales; “but we may call him six, M’sieu’, for if it had
been to-morrow that we had caught him, he would certainly have gained
the other ounce.” And yet, why should I repeat the fisherman’s folly of
writing down the record of that marvellous catch? We always do it, but
we know that it is a vain thing. Few listen to the tale, and none accept
it. Does not Christopher North, reviewing the _Salmonia_ of Sir Humphry
Davy, mock and jeer unfeignedly at the fish stories of that most
reputable writer? But, on the very next page, old Christopher himself
meanders on into a perilous narrative of the day when he caught a whole
cart-load of trout in a Highland loch. Incorrigible, happy
inconsistency! Slow to believe others, and full of sceptical inquiry,
fond man never doubts one thing—that somewhere in the world a tribe of
gentle readers will be discovered to whom his fish stories will appear
credible.
One of our days on the island was Sunday—a day of rest in a week of
idleness. We had a few books; for there are some in existence which will
stand the test of being brought into close contact with nature. Are not
John Burroughs’ cheerful, kindly essays full of woodland truth and
companionship? Can you not carry a whole library of musical philosophy
in your pocket in Matthew Arnold’s volume of selections from Wordsworth?
And could there be a better sermon for a Sabbath in the wilderness than
Mrs. Slosson’s immortal story of _Fishin’ Jimmy_?
But to be very frank about the matter, the camp is not stimulating to
the studious side of my mind. Charles Lamb, as usual, has said what I
feel: “I am not much a friend to out-of-doors reading. I cannot settle
my spirits to it.”
There are blueberries growing abundantly among the rocks—huge clusters
of them, bloomy and luscious as the grapes of Eshcol. The blueberry is
nature’s compensation for the ruin of forest fires. It grows best where
the woods have been burned away and the soil is too poor to raise
another crop of trees. Surely it is an innocent and harmless pleasure to
wander along the hillsides gathering these wild fruits, as the Master
and His disciples once walked through the fields and plucked the ears of
corn, never caring what the Pharisees thought of that new way of keeping
the Sabbath.
And here is a bed of moss beside a dashing rivulet, inviting us to rest
and be thankful. Hark! There is a white-throated sparrow, on a little
tree across the river, whistling his afternoon song
“_In linkèd sweetness long drawn out._”
Down in Maine they call him the Peabody-bird, because his notes sound to
them like _Old mān—Péabody, péabody, péabody_. In New Brunswick the
Scotch settlers say that he sings _Lōst—lōst—Kénnedy, kénnedy, kénnedy_.
But here in his northern home I think we can understand him better. He
is singing again and again, with a cadence that never wearies,
“_Sweet—sweet—Cánada, cánada, cánada!_” The Canadians, when they came
across the sea, remembering the nightingale of southern France, baptised
this little gray minstrel their _rossignol_, and the country ballads are
full of his praise. Every land has its nightingale, if we only have the
heart to hear him. How distinct his voice is—how personal, how
confidential, as if he had a message for us!
There is a breath of fragrance on the cool shady air beside our little
stream, that seems familiar. It is the first week of September. Can it
be that the twin-flower of June, the delicate _Linnæa borealis_, is
blooming again? Yes, here is the threadlike stem lifting its two frail
pink bells above the bed of shining leaves. How dear an early flower
seems when it comes back again and unfolds its beauty in a St. Martin’s
summer! How delicate and suggestive is the faint, magical odour! It is
like a renewal of the dreams of youth.
“And need we ever grow old?” asked my lady Greygown, as she sat that
evening with the twin-flower on her breast, watching the stars come out
along the edge of the cliffs, and tremble on the hurrying tide of the
river. “Must we grow old as well as gray? Is the time coming when all
life will be commonplace and practical, and governed by a dull ‘of
course’? Shall we not always find adventures and romances, and a few
blossoms returning, even when the season grows late?”
“At least,” I answered, “let us believe in the possibility, for to doubt
it is to destroy it. If we can only come back to nature together every
year, and consider the flowers and the birds, and confess our faults and
mistakes and our unbelief under these silent stars, and hear the river
murmuring our absolution, we shall die young, even though we live long:
we shall have a treasure of memories which will be like the twin-flower,
always a double blossom on a single stem, and carry with us into the
unseen world something which will make it worth while to be immortal.”
1894.
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