myself. Mr. Watkins tried to make me believe that he thought it a water
moccasin snake. Old Mr. Shane said that it was a 'young sea-sarpint
sure.' Mr. Ficket, the blacksmith, begged it to take home for its skin,
as he said for buskin-strings and flail-strings. So ends my day's
fishing.
* * * * *
"Went over to-day to see Watkins make bricks. I have always thought
there was some mystery about it, but I can make them myself. Why did the
Israelites complain so much at having to make bricks without straw? I
should not use straw if I was a brick-maker; besides, when they are
burned in the kiln, the straw will burn out and leave the bricks full of
holes.
* * * * *
"I can, from my chamber window, look across into Aunt Manning's garden,
this morning, and see little Betty Tarbox, flitting among the
rose-bushes, and in and out of the arbor, like a tiny witch. She will
never realize the calamity that came upon her brothers and sisters that
terrible night when her father and mother lay within a few rods of each
other, in the snow, freezing to death. I love the elf, because of her
loss; and still my aunt is much more to her than her own mother, in her
poverty, could have been."
* * * * *
This little girl was the child of some poor people of the neighborhood
who were frozen to death one March night, in 1819. In a letter to his
uncle Robert, March 24, 1819, Nathaniel says: "I suppose you have not
heard of the death of Mr. Tarbox and his wife, who were froze to death
last Wednesday. They were brought out from the Cape on Saturday, and
buried from Captain Dingley's on Sunday." This determines the time of
writing the last-quoted extract from the journal.
* * * * *
"This morning I saw at the grist-mill a solemn-faced old horse, hitched
to the trough. He had brought for his owner some bags of corn to be
ground, who, after carrying them into the mill, walked up to Uncle
Richard's store, leaving his half-starved animal in the cold wind with
nothing to eat, while the corn was being turned to meal. I felt sorry,
and nobody being near, thought it best to have a talk with the old nag,
and said, 'Good morning, Mr. Horse, how are you to-day?' 'Good morning,
youngster,' said he, just as plain as a horse can speak, and then said,
'I am almost dead, and I wish I was quite. I am hungry, have had no
breakfast, and must stand here tied by the head while they are grinding
the corn, and until master drinks two or three glasses of rum at the
store, then drag him and the meal up the Ben Ham Hill, and home, and am
now so weak that I can hardly stand. O dear, I am in a bad way'; and the
old creature cried. I almost cried myself. Just then the miller went
down stairs to the meal-trough; I heard his feet on the steps, and not
thinking much what I was doing, ran into the mill, and taking the
four-quart toll-dish nearly full of corn out of the hopper, carried it
out and poured it into the trough before the horse, and placed the dish
back before the miller came up from below. When I got out, the horse was
laughing, but he had to eat slowly, because the bits were in his mouth.
I told him that I was sorry, but did not know how to take them out, and
should not dare to if I did, for his master might come out and see what
I was about. 'Thank you,' said he, 'a luncheon of corn with the bits in
is much better than none. The worst of it is, I have to munch so slowly,
that master may come before I finish it, and thrash me for eating his
corn, and you for the kindness.' I sat down on a stone out of the wind,
and waited in trouble, for fear that the miller and the owner of the
corn would come and find out what I had done. At last the horse winked
and stuck out his upper lip ever so far, and then said, 'The last kernel
is gone'; then he laughed a little, then shook one ear, then the other,
then shut his eyes as if to take a nap. I jumped up and said: 'How do
you feel, old fellow; any better?' He opened his eyes, and looking at me
kindly, answered 'very much,' and then blew his nose exceedingly loud,
but he did not wipe it. Perhaps he had no wiper. I then asked if his
master whipped him much. He opened his eyes, and looking at me kindly,
answered, 'Not much lately; he used to till my hide got hardened, but
now he has a white-oak goad-stick with an iron brad in its end, with
which he jabs my hind quarters and hurts me awfully.' I asked him why he
did not kick up, and knock his tormentor out of the wagon. 'I did try
once,' said he, 'but am old and was weak, and could only get my heels
high enough to break the whiffletree, and besides lost my balance and
fell down flat. Master then jumped down, and getting a cudgel struck me
over the head, and I thought my troubles were over. This happened just
before Mr. Ben Ham's house, and I should have been finished and ready
for the crows, if he had not stepped out and told master not to strike
again, if he did he would shake his liver out. That saved my life, but I
was sorry, though Mr. Ham meant good.' The goad with the iron brad was
in the wagon, and snatching it out I struck the end against a stone, and
the stabber flew into the mill-pond. 'There,' says I, 'old colt,' as I
threw the goad back into the wagon, 'he won't harpoon you again with
_that_ iron.' The poor old brute knew well enough what I said, for
I looked him in the eye and spoke horse language. At that moment the
brute that owned the horse came out of the store, and down the hill
towards us. I slipped behind a pile of slabs. The meal was put in the
wagon, the horse unhitched, the wagon mounted, the goad picked up and a
thrust made, but dobbin was in no hurry. Looking at the end of the
stick, the man bawled, 'What little devil has had my goad?' and then
began striking with all his strength; but his steed only walked, shaking
his head as he went across the bridge; and I thought I heard the ancient
Equus say as he went, 'Thrash as much as you please, for once you cannot
stab.' I went home a little uneasy, not feeling sure that the feeding
the man's corn to his horse was not stealing, and thinking that if the
miller found it out, he would have me taken down before Squire Longley.
* * * * *
"Polly Maxfield came riding to mill to-day on horseback. She rode as
gracefully as a Trooper. I wish with all my heart that I was as daring a
rider, or half so graceful.
* * * * *
"This morning walked down to the Pulpit Rock Hill, and climbed up into
the pulpit. It looks like a rough place to preach from, and does not
seem so much like a pulpit when one is in it, as when viewing it from
the road below. It is a wild place, and really a curiosity. I brought a
book and sat in the rocky recess, and read for nearly an hour. This is a
point on the road known to all teamsters. They have a string of names
for reference by which they tell each other where they met
fellow-teamsters and where their loads got stuck, and I have learned
them from those who stop for drinks at the store. One meets another near
our house, and says, 'Where did you meet Bill?' 'Just this side of
Small's Brook,' or 'At the top of Gray's Pinch,' 'At the Dry Mill-Pond,'
'Just the other side of Lemmy Jones's,' 'On the long causeway,' 'At
Jeems Gowen's,' 'Coming down the Pulpit Rock Hill,' 'Coming down Tarkill
Hill.' I have heard these answers till I have them by heart, without
having any idea where any of the places are, excepting the one I have
seen to-day. While on the bridge near the Pulpit, Mr. West, who lives
not far away, came along and asked where I had been. On my telling him,
he said that no money would hire him to go up to that pulpit; that the
Devil used to preach from it long and long ago; that on a time when
hundreds of them were listening to one of his sermons, a great chief
laughed in the Devil's face, upon which he stamped his foot, and the
ground to the southwest, where they were standing, sunk fifty feet, and
every Indian went down out of sight, leaving a swamp to this day. He
declared that he once stuck a pole in there, which went down easily
several feet, but then struck the skull-bone of an Indian, when
instantly all the hassocks and flags began to shake; he heard a yell as
from fifty overgrown Pequots; that he left the pole and ran for life.
Mr. West also said that no Indian had ever been known to go near that
swamp since, but that whenever one came that way, he turned out of the
road near the house of Mr. West, and went straight to Thomas Pond,
keeping to the eastward of Pulpit Rock, giving it a wide berth. Mr. West
talked as though he believed what he said.
* * * * *
"A pedler named Dominicus Jordan was to-day in Uncle Richard's store,
telling a ghost-story. I listened intently, but tried not to seem
interested. The story was of a house, the owner of which was suddenly
killed. Since his death the west garret-window cannot be kept closed;
though the shutters be hasped and nailed at night, they are invariably
found open the next morning, and no one can tell when or how the nails
were drawn. There is also on the farm an apple-tree, the fruit of which
the owner was particularly fond of, but since his death no one has been
able to get one of the apples. The tree hangs full nearly every year,
but whenever any individual tries to get one, stones come in all
directions as if from some secret infernal battery, or hidden catapult,
and more than once have those making the attempts been struck. What is
more strange, the tree stands in an open field, there being no shelter
near from which tricks can be played without exposure. Jordan says that
it seems odd to strangers to see that tree loaded with apples when the
snow is four feet deep; and, what is a mystery, there are no apples in
the spring; no one ever sees the wind blow one off, none are seen on the
snow, nor even the vestige of one on the grass under the tree; and that
children may play on the grass under and around it while it is in the
blossom, and until the fruit is large enough to tempt them, with perfect
safety; but the moment one of the apples is sought for, the air is full
of flying stones. He further says, that late one starlight night he was
passing the house, and looking up saw the phantom walk out of the garret
window with cane in hand, making all the motions as if walking on
_terra firma_, although what appeared to be his feet were at least
six yards from the ground; and so he went walking away on nothing, and
when nearly out of sight there was a great flash and an explosion as of
twenty field-pieces, then--nothing. This story was told with seeming
earnestness, and listened to as though it was believed. How strange it
is that almost all persons, old or young, are fond of hearing about the
supernatural, though it produces nervousness and fear! I should not be
willing to sleep in that garret, though I do not believe a word of the
story.
* * * * *
"The lumbermen from Saccarappa are getting their logs across the Great
Pond. Yesterday a strong northwest wind blew a great raft of many
thousands over almost to the mouth of the Dingley Brook. Their anchor
dragged for more than a mile, but when the boom was within twenty or
thirty rods of the shore, it brought up, and held, as I heard some men
say who are familiar with such business. All the men and boys went from
the mill down to the pond to see the great raft, and I among them. They
have a string of logs fastened end to end and surrounding the great
body, which keeps them from scattering, and the string is called a boom.
A small, strong raft, it may be forty feet square, with an upright
windlass in its centre, called a capstan, is fastened to some part of
the boom. The small raft is called 'Head Works,' and from it in a
yawl-boat is carried the anchor, to which is attached a strong rope half
a mile long. The boat is rowed out the whole length of the rope, the
anchor thrown over, and the men on the headworks wind up the capstan and
so draw along the acres of logs. After we went down to the shore,
several of the men came out on the boom nearest to us, and, striking a
single log, pushed it under and outside; then one man with a gallon jug
slung to his back, taking a pickpole, pushed himself ashore on the small
single log,--a feat that seemed almost miraculous to me. This man's name
was Reuben Murch, and he seemed to be in no fear of getting soused. This
masterly kind of navigation he calls 'cuffing the rigging'; nobody could
tell me why he gave it that name. Murch went up to the store, had the
jug filled with rum (the supply having run out on the headworks), and
made the voyage back the way he came. His comrades received him with
cheers, and after sinking the log and drawing it back under the boom,
proceeded to try the contents of the jug, seeming to be well satisfied
with the result of his expedition. It turned out that Murch only rode
the single log ashore to show his adroitness, for the yawl-boat came
round from the headworks, and brought near a dozen men in red shirts to
where we were. I was interested listening to their conversation mixed
with sharp jokes. Nearly every man had a nickname. Murch was called
'Captain Snarl'; a tall, fierce-looking man, who just filled my idea of
a Spanish freebooter, was 'Dr. Coddle.' I think his real name was Wood.
The rum seems to make them crazy, for one, who was called 'Rub-a-dub,'
pitched 'Dr. Coddle' head and heels into the water. A gentlemanly man
named Thompson, who acted as master of ceremonies, or Grand Turk,
interfered and put a stop to what was becoming something like a fight.
Mr. Thompson said that the wind would go down with the sun, and that
they must get ready to start. This morning I went down to look for them,
and the raft was almost to Frye's Island.
* * * * *
"I have read 'Gulliver's Travels,' but do not agree with Captain Britton
that it is a witty and uncommonly interesting book; the wit is obscene,
and the _lies_ too _false_."
* * * * *
The next and last piece of this note-book was printed two years later
than the preceding items, and after the death of the person who
professed to own the manuscript, but still with the same degree of
mystery, except in the matter of date.
"Day before yesterday Mr. Thomas Little from Windham, Mr. M. P. Sawyer
of Portland, Mr. Thomas A. Deblois, a lawyer, Mr. Hanson of Windham, and
Enoch White, a boy of about my own age, from White's Bridge, came up to
the Dingley Brook in a sail-boat. They were on the way to Muddy River
Bog, for a day's sport, fishing, and shooting ducks. Enoch proposed that
I should go with them. I needed no urging, but knew how unwillingly my
mother would consent. They could wait but a few minutes, and Uncle
Richard kindly wrote a note, asking her to be willing to gratify me
_this_ time.
"She said, 'Yes,' but I was almost sorry, knowing that my day's pleasure
would cost _her_ one of anxiety. However, I gathered up hooks and
lines, with some white salted pork for bait, and with a fabulous number
of biscuit, split in the middle, the insides well buttered, then
skilfully put together again, and all stowed in sister's large work-bag,
and slung over my shoulder. I started, making a wager with Enoch White,
as we walked down to the boat, as to which would catch the largest
number of fish.
"The air was clear, with just breeze enough to shoot us along
pleasantly, without making rough waves. The wind was not exactly after
us, though we made but two tacks to reach the mouth of Muddy River. The
men praised the grand view, after we got into the Great Bay. We could
see the White Hills to the northwest, though Mr. Little said they were
eighty miles from us; and grand old Rattlesnake, to the northeast, in
its immense jacket of green oak, looked more inviting than I had ever
seen it; while Frye's Island, with its close growth of great trees,
growing to the very edge of the water, looked like a monstrous green
raft, floating to the southeastward. Whichever way the eye turned,
something charming appeared. Mr. Little seems to be familiar with every
book that has ever been written, and must have a great memory. Among
other things, he said:--
"'Gentlemen, do you know that this should be called the sea, instead of
the Great Pond; that ships should be built here and navigate this water?
The surface of the Sea of Galilee, of which we hear so much in the New
Testament, was just about equal to the surface of our sea to-day.'
"And then he went on to give a geographical description of the country
about the Sea of Galilee, and draw parallels between places named in the
Testament and points in sight. His talk stole my attention until we were
fairly at Muddy River mouth.
"Muddy River Bog is quite a curiosity. The river empties into the pond
between two small sandy capes or points, only a short distance apart;
but after running up a little between them we found the bog to widen to
fifty or sixty rods in some places, and to be between two or three miles
long. People say that it has no bottom, and that the longest poles that
ever grew may be run down into the mud and then pushed down with another
a little longer, and this may be repeated until the long poles are all
gone.
"Coarse, tall water-grass grows up from the mud over every part, with
the exception of a place five or six rods wide, running its whole
length, and nearly in the middle, which is called the Channel. One can
tell at first sight that it is the place for pickerel and water-snakes.
"Mr. Deblois stated something that I never heard before as a fact in
natural history, that the pickerel wages war upon all fish, except the
trout, who is too active for him; that he is a piscatorial cannibal; but
that under all circumstances and in all places, he lives on good terms
with the water-snake.
"We saw a great many ducks, but they seemed to know that Mr. Sawyer had
a gun, and flew on slight notice. At last, as four were flying and
seemed to be entirely out of gunshot, he fired, saying he would frighten
them, if no more; when, to our surprise, he brought one down. The gun
was loaded with ball, and Mr. Deblois told him he could not do it again
in a million shots. Mr. Sawyer laughed, saying that he had always been a
votary of Chance, and that, as a general thing, she had treated him
handsomely.
"We sailed more than a mile up the bog, fishing and trolling for
pickerel; and though we saw a great many, not one offered to be caught,
but horned pouts were willing, and we caught them till it was no sport.
We found a man there who had taken nearly two bushels of pouts. He was
on a raft, and had walked from near the foot of Long Pond, in Otisfield.
Mr. Little knew him, and, intending to have some fun, said, 'The next
time you come to Portland I want half a dozen of your best jewsharps;
leave them at my store at Windham Hill. I need them very badly.'
"The man deliberately took from the hook a large pout that he had just
pulled up, and, laying his fishing-pole down, began solemnly to explore
in his pockets, and brought out six quaint jewsharps carefully tied to
pieces of corn-cobs; then he tossed them into our boat to Mr. Little,
saying, 'There they are, Tom, and they are as good ones as I ever made;
I shall charge you fifty cents for them.' Mr. Little had the worst of
the joke; but as the other men began to rally him, he took out the
silver and paid the half-dollar; but they laughed at him till he told
them, if they would say no more about it, he would give them all the
brandy they could drink when they got home.
"Mr. Deblois said he would not be bribed; that he must tell Peter White
when he got to Windham Hill.
"Mr. Little said he would not have Peter White know it for a yoke of
steers.
"After fishing till all were tired, we landed on a small dry knoll that
made out into the bog, to take our luncheon. The men had a variety of
eatables, and several bottles that held no eatables. The question was
started whether Enoch and I should be invited to drink, and they
concluded not to urge us, as we were boys, and under their care. So Mr.
Deblois said, 'Boys, anything to eat that is in our baskets is as much
yours as ours; help yourselves; but we shall not invite you to drink
spirits.'
"We thanked them, and said that we had plenty of our own to eat, and had
no relish for spirits, but were very thirsty for water. Mr. Little had
been there before, and directed us to a spring of the best of water,
that boiled up like a pot from the ground, just at the margin of the
bog.
"Before starting to return, the bet between Enoeh and myself had to be
settled. By its conditions, the one who caught the largest number of
fish was to have all the hooks and lines of the other. I counted my
string and found twenty-five. Enoch made twenty-six on his; so I was
about turning over the spoils, when Mr. Sawyer said that my string was
the largest, and that there was a mistake. So he counted, and made
twenty-six on mine, and twenty-five on Enoch's. We counted again, and
found it was as he said, and Enoch prepared to pay the bet, when Mr.
Sawyer again interfered, saying that Enoch's string was certainly larger
than mine, and proposed to count again. This time I had but twenty-four,
and Enoch twenty-seven. All the men counted them several times over,
until we could not tell which was which, and they never came out twice
alike.
"At length Mr. Deblois said solemnly, 'Stop this, Sawyer, you have
turned these fish into a pack of cards, and are fooling us all.' The men
laughed heartily, and so should I if I had known what the point of the
joke was.
"Mr. Deblois said the decision as to our bet would have to go over to
the next term. After starting for home, while running down the bog, Mr.
Sawyer killed three noble black ducks at one shot, but the gun was not
loaded this time with ball. Mr. Hanson struck with his fishing-pole, and
killed a monstrous water-snake. Mr. Little measured a stick with his
hands, and using it as a rule, declared him to be five feet long. If I
thought any such snakes ever went over to Dingley Bay, I never would go
into the water there again.
"When we got out of the bog into the open water, we found a lively
breeze from the northwest, and they landed me at the Dingley Brook in
less than an hour, and then kept on like a great white bird down towards
the Cape, and for the outlet. I stood and watched the boat until it was
nearly half-way to Frye's Island, loath to lose sight of what had helped
me to enjoy the day so much. Taking my fish I walked home, and greeted
mother just as the sun went out of sight behind the hills in Baldwin.
The fish were worthless, but I thought I must have something to show for
the day spent. After exhibiting them to mother and sister, and hearing
the comments as to their ugliness, and much speculation as to what their
horns were for, I gave them to Mr. Lambard, who said that pouts were the
best of fish after they were skinned.
"I have made this account of the expedition to please Uncle Richard, who
is an invalid and cannot get out to enjoy such sport, and wished me to
describe everything just as it had happened, whether witty or silly, and
give my own impressions. He has read my diary, and says that it
interested him, which is all the reward I desire. And now I add these
lines to keep in remembrance the peculiar satisfaction I received in
hearing the conversation, especially of Mr. Deblois and Mr. Little.
August, 1818, Raymond."
* * * * *
These extracts from the Raymond Journal, if they be genuine, as in most
respects I believe they must be, will furnish a clew, otherwise wanting,
to the distinct turn which the boy's mind took toward authorship after
his return to Salem, and on passing the propylon of classical culture.
We can also see in them, I think, the beginning of that painstaking
accumulation of fact, the effort to be first of all accurate, which is a
characteristic of his maturer and authenticated note-books; very
significant, too, is the dash of the supernatural and his tone
concerning it. A habit of thus preserving impressions, and of communing
with himself through the pen, so constant and assiduous as we know it to
have been in his later years,--even when mind and time were
preoccupied,--must have been formed early, to retain so strong a hold
upon him. But there is another reason for supposing that he had begun to
compose with care before coming from Raymond to Salem; and this is found
in the fact that, in 1820, he began issuing (probably to a very small
and intimate circle of subscribers) a neat little weekly paper printed
with the pen on sheets of a much-curtailed note size, and written in an
excellent style.
The first number, dated Monday, August 21, 1820, opens with the Editor's
Address:--