The Hermit of Aroostook.
Mouth of the Aroostook. July.
I was on my way down the river St. John, in New Brunswick, and having
heard that the Aroostook, (one of its principal tributaries,) was famous
for its salmon and a picturesque waterfall, I had taken up my quarters
at a tavern near the mouth of that stream, with a view of throwing the
fly for a few days, and adding to my stock of sketches. I arrived at
this place in the forenoon, and after depositing my luggage in an upper
room, and ordering a dinner, I proceeded to arrange my tackle and
pencils for an afternoon expedition. This preparatory business I
performed in the sitting-room of the tavern, where there happened to be
seated at the time, and reading the New York Albion, an oddly-dressed
but gentlemanly-looking man. In form, he was tall and slender, appeared
to be about fifty years of age, and there was such an air of refinement
in his appearance and manners that he attracted my particular attention.
I said nothing, however, and quietly continued my snelling operations,
until summoned to dinner. While at the table, I sent for the landlord,
to inquire about the stranger whom I had noticed, and his reply was as
follows:—“His name is Robert Egger; he is a strange but good man, and
lives the life of a recluse; his house is above the Fall, on the
Aroostook, and about four miles from here. He has been in this part of
the country for many years, but I seldom see him at my house, excepting
when he wants to read the news, put a letter in the office, or purchase
a bag of flour.”
With this intelligence I was quite delighted, for I fancied that I had
discovered a _character_, which eventually proved to be the case. On
returning to the room where the stranger was seated, I introduced myself
by offering him a cigar; and while fixing my rod, asked him a few
questions about the surrounding country. His replies proved him to be an
intelligent man, and as he happened to express himself a lover of the
“gentle art,” I offered him the use of some fishing tackle, and invited
him to accompany me. He refused my offer, but accepted my invitation,
and we started for the Aroostook. He officiated as my guide; and when we
approached the river, which was from two to five feet deep, about one
hundred yards wide, very rapid, and filled with bridge piers in ruin, we
jumped into a Frenchman’s canoe, and were landed on the northern shore.
Here we came into a road which passed directly along the bank of the
river; this we followed for one mile, until we arrived at a
flouring-mill, situated at the mouth of a large and very beautiful
brook, where the road made a sudden turn towards the north.
Directly opposite the mill, on the Aroostook side, was a narrow and
rapid rift, where, my friend told me, I was sure to hook a salmon. I did
not like the appearance of the place, but took his advice and waded in.
I tried my luck for some thirty minutes, but could not tempt a single
fish. This, my friend did not understand; he said there were salmon
there, and thought that the fault was mine. I knew what he wanted, and
therefore handed him my rod, that he might try his fortune. He fished
for nearly half an hour, and then broke the fly-tip of my rod. As I was
cherishing an earnest desire to take at least one salmon, under the
Fall, which I thought the only likely place to succeed, and towards
which I had set my face, this little accident made me exceedingly
nervous. My friend attempted to console me by remarking, that as it was
getting towards evening, we had better return to the tavern, and take a
fresh start in the morning. But this proposition did not suit me at all,
and I promptly said so. “Just as you please,” replied my companion, and
so we repaired the rod, and continued up the river. Very rapid, with
many and deep pools, was this portion of the stream; and our course
along the shore, over logs and fallen trees, through tangled underbrush
and around rocky points—was attended with every imaginable difficulty,
and so continued for at least two miles. On coming in sight of the Fall,
however, I was more than amply repaid for all my trouble, by the
prospect which there presented itself. It was, perhaps, one hour before
sunset, and there was a delightful atmosphere resting upon the
landscape.
Directly before me, in the extreme distance, and immediately under the
crimson sun, was a narrow rocky gorge, through which foamed the waters
of the Aroostook, over a precipice of some thirty feet; and just below
the Fall, rose a perpendicular rock, to the height of nearly a hundred
feet, dividing the stream into two channels. The entire middle distance
of the prospect was composed of a broad and almost circular basin of
very deep and dark water, skirted mostly with a rocky shore, while
directly across the surface of this pool, winding down the stream, was a
line of foam, distinguishing the main channel; while the foreground of
this picture consisted of a gravelly beach, two bark wigwams, several
canoes, and some half dozen Indians, who were enjoying their evening
meal by the side of an expiring fire.
We held a brief conversation with the Indians, and found out that they
had visited the basin for the purpose of spearing salmon by torchlight;
and while my companion sat down in their midst to rest himself, I jumped
into one of the canoes, and paddled to the foot of the fall, to try one
of my fancy flies. I fished for about thirty minutes—caught one small
salmon—lost two very large ones, and returned to the Indian camp, where
I had previously concluded to spend the night, provided my guide did not
insist upon returning to the tavern by moonlight. It so happened,
however, that my interesting plan was vetoed by my companion, who told
me that his dwelling was only a mile off, and that I must go and spend
the night with him. I willingly assented to this proposition, and having
picked up the salmon, we engaged the Indians to ferry us across the
basin, and proceeded on our way. Our path was somewhat narrow, crooked,
and intricate, and as I listened to the roaring of the waterfall, and
thought of the mystery which hung over my companion, I could not but
wonder what I was about, to what strange place I was going.
In due time, however, we emerged from the woods, and came out upon the
side of a gentle hill, which sloped to the margin of the Aroostook, and
was sufficiently open to command an extensive view of the river. Here my
friend told me to tarry a few moments, for he had a canoe hidden among
some willows, and wished to hunt it up, that we might recross the river
once more. I heard his words, but neglected to assist him, for my whole
attention was riveted by the scene upon which I was gazing. The sober
livery of twilight had settled upon the world, and the flowing of the
river was so peaceful, that I could distinctly hear the hum of
unnumbered insects, as they sported in the air. On the opposite shore
was a lofty forest-covered hill, and at the foot of it a small clearing,
in the centre of which stood a rude log cabin—the dwelling-place of my
friend. On my left, the river presented the appearance of a lake: and
apparently in the centre of it were two of the most exquisitely foliaged
islands imaginable. The valley seemed completely hemmed in with
mountains, and these, together with a glowing sky, were all distinctly
mirrored in the sleeping waters. Charming beyond compare was this
evening landscape, and the holy time “was quiet as a nun, breathless
with adoration.” But now my companion summoned me to a seat in the
canoe, and we passed over the stream in safety; he hauled up his
shallop, laid aside his paddle, and, slapping me on the shoulder, led
the way to his cabin, repeating, in a loud clear voice, the following
words:
“Alone I live, between four hills,—
Fame Roostook runs between;—
At times, wild animals appear,
But men are seldom seen.”
[Illustration: ROBERT EGGER’S FARM-HOUSE.]
On entering the hut, which was now quite dark, as it only contained one
window, my companion turned abruptly round, and after making a
frolicsome remark about my being in his power, he exclaimed—“That poetry
I repeated to you just now was a home-spun article, but as you might
fancy something a little more civilized, I would say to you, my young
friend, in the language of Wordsworth’s ‘Solitary,’
“This is my domain, my cell,
My hermitage, my cabin, what you will—
I love it better than a snail his house,
But now ye shall be feasted with our best.”
Soon as these words had fallen from his lips, my friend proceeded to
collect some wood for a fire, and while I was left to kindle the flame,
he seized a tin-pail and went after some spring water, which he said was
some distance off. In a few moments, I produced a sufficient quantity of
light to answer my purpose, and then took occasion to survey the room,
into which I had been thus strangely introduced. Everything about me
seemed to be oddity itself. First was the huge fire-place, rudely made
of rough stones and filled with ashes; then the blackish appearance of
the log walls around, and the hemlock rafters above. In one corner stood
a kind of wooden box, filled with blankets, which answered the purpose
of a bed,—and in front of the only window in the cabin was a pine table,
on which stood an inkstand and some writing paper, and under which sat a
large gray cat, watching my movements with a suspicious eye. In one
place stood a wooden chest, and a half-barrel of meal, and the only
things in the room, to sit upon were a couple of wooden chairs. The
crevices in the walls were stopped up with rags and clay, and from
various rafters depended bundles of mint, hemlock, and other useful
productions of the wood. A rusty old gun, and a home-made fishing rod
occupied one corner; and on every side, resting upon wooden pegs, were
numerous shelves, of every size and form, which were appropriated to a
variety of uses. On one or two of them were the cooking utensils of my
friend; on another, a lot of smoky books; and on others, a little of
every thing, from a box of salt or paper of tea, down to a spool of
thread or a paper of needles.
In a few moments my friend re-entered the cabin, and immediately began
to prepare our evening meal, which consisted of bread, fried pork, and
salmon, and a cup of tea. Plain was our food, but it was as nicely
cooked as if it had been done by a pretty girl, instead of an old man;
and the comic pomposity with which every little matter was attended to,
afforded me much amusement. One thing I remember, which struck me as
particularly funny. My host was talking about the conduct of Sir Robert
Peel and the British Parliament, and, while in the midst of his
discourse, opened a trap-door leading to his cellar, and descended
therein. I knew not what he was after, and waited his re-appearance with
some anxiety, when suddenly he bobbed up his ghost-like head, resumed
the thread of his remarks, and held forth in one hand a huge piece of
fat pork, and as he became excited about the conduct of the Prime
Minister, he occasionally slapped the pork with the remaining hand, and
then shook it in the air, as if it had been one of the murderous
Irishmen to whom he was occasionally alluding. He reminded me of the
grave-digger in Hamlet. I also remember, that when my friend was
kneading his bread, the idea entered his head, from some remark that I
had dropped, that I did not comprehend the meaning of a certain passage
in Shakspeare, so he immediately wiped one of his hands, leaned over for
his ragged copy of the mighty bard, and immediately settled the question
to our mutual satisfaction.
Supper being ended, I pulled out of my pocket a couple of cigars which I
had brought with me, and we then seated ourselves comfortably before the
fire and entered into a systematic conversation. The greater part of the
talking was done by my companion, and in the course of the evening, I
gathered the following particulars respecting his own history.
He told me he was a native of Hampshire, England, and had spent his
boyhood in the city of London, as a counting-house clerk. He claimed a
good name for his family, and added that Mr. Jerdan, editor of the
London Literary Gazette, was his brother-in-law, having married his only
sister. He avowed himself about sixty years of age, and had been a
resident of New Brunswick ever since the year 1809. He first came across
the Atlantic as a government agent, for the transaction of business
connected with the fur trade; and when he settled in the province, the
whole country was an untrodden wilderness. Since that time he had
followed a variety of employments, had acquired a competence, but lost
it through the rascality of friends. He told me he was a widower, and
that he had one son, who resided in Frederickton, and was rapidly
acquiring a reputation for his knowledge of engineering. “It does my
heart good to remember this fact,” continued my friend, “and I do hope
that my son will not disgrace his family, as some people seem to think I
have done. The God-forsaken inhabitants of this region have a habit of
calling me a crazy old man. God be praised,—I know they overshoot the
mark in that particular; if I have lost my reason, I can tell the
mocking world, that I have endured trouble enough to make even a
philosopher, a raving maniac. By patient and unwearied toil, I have won
two small fortunes, but both of them were snatched away, and I was left
a beggar. The Home Government took pity on me, and offered to make me a
present of land, adding that I was at liberty to make my own selection.
I accepted their offer and selected five hundred acres on the Aroostook,
making the Fall we visited this evening the centre of my domain. I duly
received a deed for the property, and having concluded that my
fellow-men were as tired of me as I was of them, I bolted for the
wilderness and have lived here ever since. Yes, sir, for twelve years
have I been the only human inmate of this rude cabin; I ought to except,
however, ‘a lucid interval’ of some nine months, which I spent in
England, about four years ago, visiting my friends and the favourite
haunts of my childhood. To enjoy even that little luxury, I was
compelled to sacrifice a portion of my land.”
“But why do you not sell your entire property?” I remarked, “and take up
your abode among men, where your knowledge might be made available?”
“Knowledge, indeed!” replied the hermit philosopher; “all that I
possess, you might easily hide in the bowl of an acorn. I do know enough
to cast my eyes heavenward, when crushed by misfortune, but the same
knowledge was possessed by the worm upon which I accidentally trod this
morning. What is man, at his best estate, but a worm? But this is not
answering your question. My only reason for not selling this property
is, that I cannot find a purchaser. Most gladly would I jump at the
chance, and then I _would_ mingle with my fellow-men, and endeavour to
be _of_ them. Travellers, who sometimes pass through this region, tell
me that my property is worth 5000 dollars; I know it to be worth at
least that amount, but I should be glad to sell it for 3000 dollars, and
that too, on a credit of ten years. The interest would, indeed, be a
meagre income, but I have schooled myself in the ways of poverty; and
though it once cost me 2000 dollars to carry me through a single year, I
can tell you that my expenses for the last five years have not averaged
more than 20 dollars, which I have had to obtain as best I could. But
you must not misunderstand me. The little clearing which surrounds my
rookery contains six acres, and, as I cultivate them with all diligence,
they keep me from actual starvation.”
“But it strikes me, my dear sir, that you ask rather an extravagant
price for your uncultivated land?” I asked this question with a view of
obtaining some information in reference to the valley of the Aroostook,
and was not disappointed. The reply of my friend was as follows:
“I can convince you that you are mistaken. In the first place, the water
privilege which my land covers, is acknowledged to be the most valuable
on the Aroostook, and I may add that it is abundantly fertile. And then
think of the valley, at the very threshold of which I am located. It is
one of the most beautiful and luxuriant in this northern wilderness; and
the only thing against it, though I say it, that should not, is the fact
that nearly five miles of its outlet belongs to the English Government,
while the remainder belongs to the United States. The whole of it ought
to be yours, but if it were, I would not live here a year; I am near
enough to you now; directly on the boundary-line between your country
and mine. The Aroostook, I verily believe, is one of the most important
branches of the St. John. Its general course is easterly, but it is
exceedingly serpentine, and according to some of your best surveyors,
drains upwards of a million acres of the best soil in Maine. Above my
place, there is hardly a spot that might not be navigated by a small
steam-boat; and I believe the time is not far distant when your
enterprising Yankees will have a score of boats employed here in
carrying their grain to market. Before that time comes, however, you
must dig a canal or build a railroad around my beautiful waterfall,
which I am sure could be done for 20,000 dollars. An extensive lumbering
business is now carried on in the valley, but its future prosperity must
depend upon its agriculture. Already are its shores dotted with
well-cultivated farms, and every year is adding to their number, and the
rural beauty of those already in existence. The soil of this valley is
rich, and composed principally of what is called _alluvial_ (not
intervale) land, together with the quality known as _upland_. In many
portions, however, you will find some of the most charming intervales in
the world. The trees of this region are similar to those of your
northern states. The staple crop of the Aroostook farmer is wheat; owing
to the shortness of our seasons, corn does not arrive at perfection, and
its cultivation is neglected. Rye, barley, and oats, all flourish here,
but much more buckwheat is raised than any other grain besides wheat.
Grasses flourish here in great perfection, and the farmer of Aroostook
will yet send to market immense quantities of cattle. As to the climate,
it is not so severe as is generally supposed. Snow falls early, and
continues late, which prevents the ground from freezing very deep. And
when summer comes, as you may testify, the weather is sufficiently warm
for every necessary purpose. Now, Sir, do you not think I have made out
a clear case?” I answered in the affirmative, and thanked him for the
information he had given me. Like Oliver Twist, however, I was anxious
for “more,” and therefore endeavoured to start him on another subject.
In this laudable effort I fully succeeded; and by merely expressing the
opinion that he must lead a very lonely life in this remote wilderness.
“Not at all, not at all,” replied my friend. “It is my good fortune to
belong to that class of men who depend upon books, the works of nature,
and themselves for happiness, and not upon a selfish and heartless
world. As to my books, they are not very abundant, nor are they bound in
fancy morocco, but the substance of them is of the right sort. Foremost
among them is the Bible, which tells even a poor devil like me that he
is a man. Perfect in their generation are the truths of this glorious
old book; they have an important bearing upon everything; and they
should be studied and cherished with jealous care. But the earth-born
minds, with whom I hold daily communion, are the mighty Shakspeare, the
splendid Gibbon, the good and loving brother poets Thompson and
Wordsworth, the gifted but wayward Burns, the elegant and witty Addison,
and the ponderous Johnson. These are the minds which always afford me
solid satisfaction. As to the immense herd who keep the printing-presses
of the present day constantly employed, I know nothing about them, and
care still less. And now as to the pleasures which are brought to me by
the revolving seasons. They are indeed manifold, and it is pleasant to
remember that ‘Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.’ The
hills which surround my cabin, I look upon as familiar friends, not only
when crowned with a wreath of snow, but when rejoicing in their summer
bloom; and a more peaceful and heart-soothing stream can nowhere be
found, than the one which flows along by my door, and you know from
experience that it abounds in the finest of salmon and trout. The
surrounding woods furnish me with game, but their greatest treasures are
the ten thousand beautiful birds, which make melody in their little
hearts, and afford me unalloyed pleasure for at least one half the year.
I seldom have occasion to kill these feathered minstrels for food, and
the consequence is, whenever I go out into my fields to work, they
gather around me without fear, and often come so near, as to be in my
very way. The quail and the wren, the jay and the blue-bird, the
mocking-bird, the partridge, the fish-hawk, the eagle and the crow, and
also the swallow, the owl, and whip-poor-will, all build their nests
within a stone’s throw of my door, and they know that the friendless old
man will do them no harm. And then what exquisite pleasure do I
continually enjoy in watching the ever-varying changes of the year!
First, when the primrose tells me that the rains are over and gone, and
I go forth in the refreshing sunshine to sow my seeds; secondly, when
the glorious summer is in its prime, with its dewy mornings and lovely
twilights; also in the sober autumnal time, when I thoughtfully count
the leaves floating on the bosom of the stream; and then again when the
cold winds of winter are howling around my cabin, and I sit in my
pleasant solitude before a roaring fire, building palaces in my mind, as
I peer into the burning embers. Yes, sir, I have learned to live without
excitement, and to depend upon myself for the companionship I need. I
do, indeed, occasionally steal out of my beautiful vale, and mingle with
my fellow-men; but I always return perfectly contented with my lot.
After all, I do not believe that the world _could_ add greatly to my
stock of happiness, even if I were a worshipper of Mammon, a brawling
politician, or a responsible statesman.”
“But, Mr. Egger, it strikes me that your manner of life is not in
keeping with the Bible, for which you have expressed so much reverence.”
“That may be true,” was the reply, “but I make no sanctimonious
pretensions. I do but little to promote the happiness of my fellow-men,
and I congratulate myself with the idea that I do as little to make them
miserable. The influence of my example amounts to nothing, and I give no
bread to the poor, because I have none to give. But let us drop the
subject; I feel that your questions may so annoy me, that I shall be
compelled to abandon the glorious old wilderness, and become a denizen
of the busy and noisy world.”
A breach having thus been made in our discourse, I examined my watch and
found it to be near twelve o’clock. My companion took the hint, and
immediately proceeded to fix a sleeping-place that would accommodate us
both. This was done by spreading the clothes of the wooden bedstead upon
the floor. While going through with this little operation, he held high
above his head a ragged old bed-quilt, and asked me what I thought Queen
Victoria would say, if she had such an article to rest her royal limbs
upon? He then pointed to the particular spot which he wanted me to
occupy, giving as a reason for the request, that there was a hole on the
opposite side of his mansion, where toads, rats, and weasels were
frequently in the habit of entering, and he was afraid they might annoy
me, though he had never been disturbed by their nocturnal visits. This
information appeared to me somewhat peculiar, but did not prevent me
from undressing myself to lie down. When about half through this
business, however, I was actually compelled to take a seat on account of
a laughing-fit, brought upon me by one or two stories, which my host
related for my special benefit. What a strange man indeed! thought I;
and making another effort, I tumbled into bed. In the meantime, my
companion had stripped himself of everything but his shirt, and, in
spite of the frailty of his “spindle shanks,” was throwing himself into
the attitudes for which Kemble was distinguished, whose acting he had
often witnessed in olden times. I was already quite exhausted with
excess of laughter, and I verily believed that the queer antics of the
anchorite and philosopher would be the death of me. But I felt that I
must go to sleep, and, in self-defence, partly covered my head with the
end of a quilt, and almost swore that I would not be disturbed again.
I did not swear, however, and was consequently again disturbed. I had
just fixed my head upon the pillow, as I thought for the last time, when
I was startled by a tremendous yell proceeding from without the cabin. I
rushed out of the house, as if the Old Harry himself had been after me,
and beheld my spare and venerable friend, sitting upon a stump, gazing
upon the rising moon, and listening to the distant howl of a wolf, with
one of his feet dangling to and fro, like the pendulum of a clock.
“Wasn’t that a musical yell, my boy?” were the first words spoken by the
hermit mad-cap; and then he went on to point out all the finer features
of the scene spread out before us. Silently flowed the stream, grand and
sublime looked the mountains, clear and very blue the sky, spirit-like
the moon and stars, and above the neighbouring waterfall ascended a
column of spray, which was fast melting into a snowy cloud. After
enjoying this picture for a reasonable time, my companion then proposed
that we should enjoy a swim in the river, to which arrangement I
assented, even as did the wedding guest of Coleridge to the command of
the Ancient Mariner. Our bath ended, we returned to the cabin, and in
the course of half-an-hour, the hermit and the stranger were side by
side in the arms of sleep.
On opening my eyes in the morning, the pleasant sunshine was flooding
the floors through the open door, and my friend, who had risen without
disturbing me, was frying some trout which he had just taken in the
stream. I arose, rolled up the bed, and prepared myself for breakfast,
which was particularly relished by the giver and the receiver. I spent
the forenoon rambling about the estate of my old friend, and enjoying
the surrounding scenery; I then proposed to him that he should go down
and be my guest at the tavern on the St. John for a day or two, which
invitation was accepted. On my return, I took a sketch of the secluded
vale where stands the cottage of my friend, also a profile of his own
handsome face, and a view of his waterfall. The time of my departure
having arrived, I left him with a heavy heart—I for my distant
city-home, and he to return to his solitary cottage among the mountains.