THE ISLAND HOME.
"Long may this ocean-gem be bright,
And long may it be fair,
In Freedom's pure and blessed light,
And Virtue's hallowed air!
While still across its ocean bound,
Shall e'er be borne the truthful sound,
Our island home! our island home!
We love our island home!"
MRS. J. H. HANAFORD.
"And yet that isle remaineth,
A refuge for the free,
As when true-hearted Macy
Beheld it from the sea.
God bless the sea-beat island!
And grant for evermore,
That Charity and Freedom dwell,
As now, upon the shore!"
J. G. WHITTIER.
Gentle reader, pause a little, and let us for a few moments turn our
thoughts toward that Island of the sea, upon which it was the fate of
our heroine, through the guidance of a divine providence, to find a home
in the bosoms of those whose hearts' beatings were of love for our
unknown. Yea, love ever encircleth purity.
Properly, this chapter, descriptive of the Island of Nantucket, should
have been our first; but had that been the case, alas, for the simple
tale of Natalie! How many would have passed it by with but one thought,
and that thought invariably,--Nantucket! pooh! a fish story, strikingly
embellished with ignorance. And you may indeed discover in the
feebleness of my unpretending pen, much that is food for critics; yet
give not a thought of ridicule to Nantucket's favored ones, for it is
not for me to enlist under her banner of superiority of intellect. To
the many questions which I know you have it in your heart to ask, as
touching the civilization, etc., of these islanders, I do not reply, as
I might be tempted under other circumstances to do, that it would be
advisable to procure a passport before landing on those shores, lest one
might stand in danger of being harpooned by the natives; but rather let
me, in as correct a light as I may, set forth to those who have
heretofore known but little of those who inhabit that triangular bit of
land in the wide ocean, which, when we were six year olds, we passed
over on our maps with the thought, I wonder if they have Sundays there.
Situated nearly one hundred miles, in a south-easterly course from the
city of Boston, and about thirty miles from the nearest point of main
land, Nantucket lifts her proud head from out the broad Atlantic, whose
waters, even when lashed to madness, have been kind to her. And now, on
this oppressive July morning, let us throw aside our cares, and come out
from our daily round of duties, where we have been scaling with our eyes
the tall brick barriers which shut out God's beautiful blue sky and
sunshine. Yes, let us off, anywhere, to get one glimpse of Nature. On
board the good steamer "Island Home," a two hours' sail carries us over
that distance which separates Cape Cod from Nantucket. If you have not
passed most of your days among the Connecticut hills, you pay little
attention to that "green-eyed monster," who considers it a part of his
duty to prepare the uninitiated for the good time coming. Arrived at the
bar, which stretches itself across the entrance to the harbor, our
first impressions take to themselves the forms of sundry venerable
windmills, church spires and towers, representing various orders of
architecture; but that which strikes us most is the scarcity of
shipping, not more than a dozen vessels lying at the wharves. In former
times Nantucket numbered as many whaleships belonging to her port, as
did any town on our seaboard. Indeed, she was built up from the produce
of the ocean, and carried the palm for years as being first among the
American whale fisheries; but her number has dwindled away, till not
one-fourth of those homeward-bound ships are destined for the port of
Nantucket.
The town, we find, is situated on the northern shore of the island, at
the harbor's head. The houses are compact, and most of them built of
wood, with little regard to beauty; though some few residences there
are, of modern style, which do credit to their designers; but the
greater number speak only of antiquity, with their shingled sides; and
you will rarely see a house that has not a "walk" upon its roof, with
which they could by no means dispense, as in case of ship-wreck near
the island, the roofs of the whole town will be alive with men, women,
and children, spyglass in hand. Besides the town there are but one or
two small villages, "Polpis," and the far-famed "Siaconset," or
"Sconset," as it is usually termed,--numbering some four dozen houses.
This village is seven and one-half miles from the town, affording a
delightful place of recreation for families from town, who, as the
summer holidays come round, harness up old Dobbin, and prepare for a six
weeks' "siesta." If, by reason of the great financial pressure, you find
you have not sufficient pocket-money to take you for a short tour to
Europe, come to "Sconset;" it is a glorious place! take a stroll along
that grand old beach, and watch the moon rise from out the ocean; then
go to your comfortable seven-by-nine lodgings, which seems like a
palace, draw the comfortable rug about you, and fall asleep, with old
Ocean for a lullaby, to dream (if your waking hours are fortunately of
that bent) of some old deserted castle, "Salem witchcraft," or a lone
"Grace Pool," attendant within the attic's most remote recesses.
The face of the island is level, so much so that the flat, bare commons
resemble somewhat our western prairies; and with the exception of the
cliffs at the north, and Sancoty Head, there are but few slight
elevations. Owing to the peculiar shape of the island, its two arms
stretching far out on either side, it does not appear to be as large as
it really is,--being about sixteen miles long, and four wide, affording
sufficient elbow room, however, for its eight thousand inhabitants. The
soil is sandy, but is cultivated to some extent; and though they can
boast of no extensive forests, yet you may occasionally meet with an old
friend in the way of a noble elm, or the pensive weeping willow. The
culture of fruit trees, also, is receiving much attention of later
years, and as widely as refinement must be separated from the islanders,
to be in keeping with your views, their love for the sweet spring
flowers knows no bounds.
In your walks of curiosity about town, you meet with a great many of the
denomination termed Friends, or Quakers, and as you pass them you cannot
refrain from giving them the inside walk, for their very garb is of
humility; and as you look into the placid face of some matron, you feel
like uncovering yourself, for you can see the innocence looking out of
her eyes. You are curious to know whither so many are wending their way,
and meeting a sailor-boy, he tells you it is "fifth day," and if you
follow in the wake of the "slick bonnets," they will pilot you to their
nearest light-house; but precious little light you will get unless the
spirit move some of them to pick up the wick. You move on with the rest
till you come to their house of worship, which appears as humble as
those who enter its doors. As you contrast the plainness on all sides
with the richly decorated edifice in which you have been accustomed to
worship, you try to smile a smile of contempt at the scene, but cannot,
for you feel that the spirit of Christ is in their midst; and though not
a word is spoken during the hour and a half, yet you feel that the
silent worship which went up to Heaven, was heard by Him who answers
prayer. As a signal for dispersing, the elders who occupy the "rising
seats," arise and shake hands, and you go your way with those silent
ones, feeling that their worship was acceptable to God. The Quakers of
Nantucket are rapidly diminishing in number. Formerly two-thirds,
perhaps, of the population, were of the Society of Friends, but now not
one-third are of that denomination. As their children come up, they are
not true to the faith, as were their fathers, and they put off the plain
garb for the fashions of the day. A Quaker in Nantucket will in time
come to be a great curiosity. Their places will, we fear, be filled by
none more upright. Heaven bless them!
Nantucket of the present is not Nantucket of the past. Her quaint,
old-timeness has given place to customs and manners more in accordance
with things common-place. Yet her originality has not entirely forsaken
her; she has a character even now, peculiar to herself. The wild waves
come tumbling in, their glad shouts ringing through the midnight
stillness with the same zest as of yore; and the same starry skies,
which looked down on the fair maiden of a century ago, still bend over
her children's children, as they tread along life's rugged way.
Occasionally you may meet with one who has long since passed the
meridian of life, one, perhaps, who has never been off of the island of
his birth; and he will tell you of the Nantucket of the past, before her
peaceful shores had been invaded by the stranger; when they might lay
them down to sleep, without thought of bolt or bar, save old ocean's
faithful bands. You will learn of Nantucket from the beginning down to
the present time. Then the island was big with prosperity. Her sons were
not obliged to leave their homes for a five years' voyage, in search of
the monster from which they gained their chief maintenance, for there
were then good fishing grounds near the shore, and often the whale might
be seen from their little island, spouting off in the distance; and
their ships came proudly bearing down to the bar, laden heavily with the
good sperm oil, and all hearts were made lighter and each purse heavier,
with every new arrival of good fortune; as if they had been one great
family, each one smiling on another's prosperity. "But now,"--and the
face of the narrator is less joyous as he turns from _then_ to
_now_,--"things are not what they were. Our island is becoming like what
they tell me the world at large is." And the old man will re-light his
pipe, and with a sad smile he will give you the names of his ancestors,
from his great "Grand-'ther" down to more modern times, when his fifth
cousin Obed was a large ship-owner. Ah! treat such of other days with
kindness, for the style of that day will never come again; their great
hearts of brotherly love are not of this generation, yet they have left
an impress upon those well-loved shores that can never be entirely
erased. Those foot-prints of long ago, combined with the peculiarities
which will ever dwell with these children of the sea, are attractions
which insure to the stranger on his first visit, visions of many a happy
hour in the future; and he will long for the season to return which
shall liberate so many of the city doomed artificials to a few weeks'
intercourse with nature.
Awakened at early dawn by the sailor's merry "yo, ho," coming up from
the waters with the sun, you turn your eyes seaward, and what a glorious
sight is before you! As far as the eye can reach, water, blue, rolling
water, tinged with rising sunlight in its morning purity; the night-bird
folds her wings, which she has laved in the white sea-foam, softening
the sigh of the breakers to the ear of those who slumbered; the white
sails bow their heads, while the old tars wonder what makes them so
happy. With these pleasant sunrise impressions you go forth into the day
with more lenient views towards the "land of whales," sniffing the salt
air with a real gusto.
Glancing up the street, you descry an object in the distance which much
resembles a travelling dry-goods merchant, with the many fancy streamers
flying in the breeze; but as it draws nearer, you look around in
astonishment for "Barnum," fully persuaded if that worthy is not on the
ground, he has mistaken his calling for once. The object in question is
no less than a common two-wheeled horse-cart, such as are used to do our
heavy carting, except this is on springs, and of a lighter build; in the
vehicle are some half dozen ladies, standing, their only support being
short ropes attached to the sides, which, however, are seldom used,
except by those unaccustomed to this kind of exercise, and in this
position they ride with the greatest ease, seldom losing their balance,
even when going at full speed.
Thoroughly initiated, and having seen most of the lions of the place,
you find yourself becoming more and more attached, forget that you have
ever thought of the island as anything but attractive. Your one week has
become the length of four, and the letters to anxious friends at home
have been characteristic of briefness, unwilling to steal a moment's
time from the enjoyment which will furnish a topic for the unemployed
hours of longer days to come. Of the many excursions which have made
short the hours of your sojourn here, I will not enter into detail;
suffice it to say, you have been disappointed in Nantucket and its
inhabitants. You have made many firm friends, the memory of whom will
stir the tear of unselfish love, as you number them over, one by one, in
the future. They will never be forgotten. You have found Nantucket is
not merely an isolated place, where oil is manufactured; where the
people only work to eat, and eat to work. [Though as some have
suggested, a carriage drive connecting Nantucket with the Continent
would be a great modern improvement]. As one has quaintly expressed, in
a little poem entitled "An Old Story:"
"Before Columbus ever thought
Of Western World, with glory fraught;
Before the Northmen had been known
To wander from their native zone;
Before war raised a single mound,
The antiquarians to confound;
Indeed, so very long ago,
The time one can't exactly know,--
A giant Sachem, good as great,
Reigned in and over our Bay State.
So huge was he, his realm so small,
He could not exercise at all,
Except by taking to the sea.
[For which he had a ticket free,
Granted by Neptune, with the seal,
A salient clam, and couchant eel].
His pipe was many a mile in length,
His lungs proportionable in strength;
And his rich moccasins,--with the pair,
The seven-league boots would not compare.
Whene'er siestas he would take,
Cape Cod must help his couch to make;
And, being lowly, it was meet
He should prefer it for his feet.
Well, one day, after quite a doze,
A month or two in length, suppose,
He waked, and, as he'd often done,
Strolled forth to see the mid-day sun;
But while unconsciously he slept,
The sand within his moccasins crept;
At every step some pain he'd feel,
'Twas now the toe, now near the heel;
At length his Sachemship grew cross,
The pebbles to the sea he'd toss,
And with a moccasin in each hand,
He threw on either side the sand;
Then in an instant there appear
Two little isles, the Sachem near!
One as the Vineyard now is known,
The other we may call our own.
At ease, he freely breathed awhile,
Which sent the fogs to bless our isle;
And turning East, with quickened motion,
The chill, bleak winds came o'er the ocean.
Ill-judging Sachem! would that you
Had never shaken _here_ that shoe.
Or, having done so, would again,
And join Nantucket to the main!"
Having had a peep within the nest, you sigh for the return of the bird,
and we will on.