'Yes, Samuel,' replied an answering voice, and a second shadow became
dimly visible on the threshold. 'The woman will attend to your earthly
concerns,' said Waiting Samuel.--'Roxana, take them hence.' The second
shadow came forward, and, without a word, took our hands and led us
along the dark passage like two children, warning us now of a step, now
of a turn, then of two steps, and finally opening a door and ushering us
into a fire-lighted room. Peat was burning upon the wide hearth, and a
singing kettle hung above it on a crane; the red glow shone on a rough
table, chairs cushioned in bright calico, a loud ticking clock, a few
gayly flowered plates and cups on a shelf, shining tins against the
plastered wall, and a cat dozing on a bit of carpet in one corner. The
cheery domestic scene, coming after the wide, dusky Flats, the silence,
the darkness, and the mystical words of the shadowy Samuel, seemed so
real and pleasant that my heart grew light within me.
'What a bright fire!' I said. 'This is your domain, I suppose,
Mrs.--Mrs.--'
'I am not Mrs.; I am called Roxana,' replied the woman, busying herself
at the hearth.
'Ah, you are then the sister of Waiting Samuel, I presume?'
'No, I am his wife, fast enough; we were married by the minister twenty
years ago. But that was before Samuel had seen any visions.'
'Does he see visions?'
'Yes, almost every day.'
'Do you see them, also?'
'O no; I'm not like Samuel. He has great gifts, Samuel has! The visions
told us to come here; we used to live away down in Maine.'
'Indeed! That was a long journey!'
'Yes! And we didn't come straight either. We'd get to one place and
stop, and I'd think we were going to stay, and just get things
comfortable, when Samuel would see another vision, and we'd have to
start on. We wandered in that way two or three years, but at last we got
here, and something in the Flats seemed to suit the spirits, and they
let us stay.'
At this moment, through the half-open door, came a voice.
'An evil beast is in this house. Let him depart.'
'Do you mean me?' said Raymond, who had made himself comfortable in a
rocking-chair.
'Nay; I refer to the four-legged beast,' continued the voice. 'Come
forth, Apollyon!'
Poor Captain Kidd seemed to feel that he was the person in question, for
he hastened under the table with drooping tail and mortified aspect.
'Roxana, send forth the beast,' said the voice.
The woman put down her dishes and went toward the table; but I
interposed.
'If he must go, I will take him,' I said, rising.
'Yes; he must go,' replied Roxana, holding open the door. So I ordered
out the unwilling Captain, and led him into the passageway.
'Out of the house, out of the house,' said Waiting Samuel. 'His feet may
not rest upon this sacred ground. I must take him hence in the boat.'
'But where?'
'Across the channel there is an islet large enough for him; he shall
have food and shelter, but here he cannot abide,' said the man, leading
the way down to the boat.
The Captain was therefore ferried across, a tent was made for him out of
some old mats, food was provided, and, lest he should swim back, he was
tethered by a long rope, which allowed him to prowl around his domain
and take his choice of three runs for drinking-water. With all these
advantages, the ungrateful animal persisted in howling dismally as we
rowed away. It was company he wanted, and not a 'dear little isle of his
own'; but then, he was not by nature poetical.
'You do not like dogs?' I said, as we reached our strand again.
'St. Paul wrote, 'Beware of dogs,' replied Samuel.
'But did he mean--'
'I argue not with unbelievers; his meaning is clear to me, let that
suffice,' said my strange host, turning away and leaving me to find my
way back alone. A delicious repast was awaiting me. Years have gone by,
the world and all its delicacies have been unrolled before me, but the
memory of the meals I ate in that little kitchen in the Flats haunts me
still. That night it was only fish, potatoes, biscuit, butter, stewed
fruit, and coffee; but the fish was fresh, and done to the turn of a
perfect broil, not burn; the potatoes were fried to a rare crisp, yet
tender perfection, not chippy brittleness; the biscuits were light,
flaked creamily, and brown on the bottom; the butter freshly churned,
without salt; the fruit, great pears, with their cores extracted,
standing whole on their dish, ready to melt, but not melted; and the
coffee clear and strong, with yellow cream and the old-fashioned,
unadulterated loaf-sugar. We ate. That does not express it; we devoured.
Roxana waited on us, and warmed up into something like excitement under
our praises.
'I _do_ like good cooking,' she confessed. 'It's about all I have left
of my old life. I go over to the mainland for supplies, and in the
winter I try all kinds of new things to pass away the time. But Samuel
is a poor eater, he is; and so there isn't much comfort in it. I'm
mighty glad you've come, and I hope you'll stay as long as you find it
pleasant.' This we promised to do, as we finished the potatoes and
attacked the great jellied pears. 'There's one thing, though,' continued
Roxana; 'you'll have to come to our service on the roof at sunrise.'
'What service?' I asked.
'The invocation. Dawn is a holy time, Samuel says, and we always wait
for it; 'before the morning watch,' you know,--it says so in the Bible.
Why, my name means 'the dawn,' Samuel says; that's the reason he gave it
to me. My real name, down in Maine, was Maria,--Maria Ann.'
'But I may not wake in time,' I said.
'Samuel will call you.'
'And if, in spite of that, I should sleep over?'
'You would not do that; it would vex him,' replied Roxana calmly.
'Do you believe in these visions, madam?' asked Raymond, as we left the
table, and seated ourselves in front of the dying fire.
'Yes,' said Roxana; emphasis was unnecessary, of course she believed.
'Almost every day there is a spiritual presence, but it does not always
speak. They come and hold long conversations in the winter, when there
is nothing else to do; that I think is very kind of them, for in the
summer Samuel can fish and his time is more occupied. There were
fisherman in the Bible, you know; it is a holy calling.'
'Does Samuel ever go over to the mainland?'
'No, he never leaves the Flats. I do all the business; take over the
fish, and buy the supplies. I bought all our cattle,' said Roxana, with
pride. 'I poled them away over here on a raft, one by one, when they
were little things.'
'Where do you pasture them?'
'Here on the island; there are only a few acres, to be sure; but I can
cut boat-loads of the best feed within a stone's throw. If we only had a
little more solid ground! But this island is almost the only solid piece
in the Flats.'
'Your butter is certainly delicious.'
'Yes, I do my best. It is sold to the steamers and vessels as fast as I
make it.'
'You keep yourself busy, I see.'
'O, I like to work; I could'nt get on without it.'
'And Samuel?'
'He is not like me,' replied Roxana. 'He has great gifts, Samuel has. I
often think how strange it is that I should be the wife of such a holy
man! He is very kind to me, too; he tells me about the visions, and all
the other things.'
'What things?' said Raymond.
'The spirits, and the sacred influence of the sun; the fiery triangle,
and the thousand years of joy. The great day is coming, you know; Samuel
is waiting for it.'
'Nine of the night. Take thou thy rest. I will lay me down in peace, and
sleep, for it is thou, Lord, only, that makest me dwell in safety,'
chanted a voice in the hall; the tone was deep and not without melody,
and the words singularly impressive in that still, remote place.
'Go,' said Roxana, instantly pushing aside her half-washed dishes.
'Samuel will take you to your room.'
'Do you leave your work unfinished?' I said, with some curiosity,
noticing that she had folded her hands without even hanging up her
towels.
'We do nothing after the evening chant,' she said. 'Pray go; he is
waiting.'
'Can we have candles?'
'Waiting Samuel allows no false lights in his house; as imitations of
the glorious sun, they are abominable to him. Go, I beg.'
She opened the door, and we went into the passage; it was entirely dark,
but the man led us across to our room, showed us the position of our
beds by sense of feeling, and left us without a word. After he had gone,
we struck matches, one by one, and, with the aid of their uncertain
light, managed to get into our respective mounds in safety; they were
shake-downs on the floor, made of fragrant hay instead of straw, covered
with beautifully clean white sheets and patchwork coverlids, and
provided with large, luxurious pillows. O pillow! Has any one sung thy
praises? When tired or sick, when discouraged or sad, what gives so much
comfort as a pillow? Not your curled hair brickbats; not your stiff,
fluted, rasping covers, or limp cotton cases; but a good, generous, soft
pillow, deftly cased in smooth, cool, untrimmed linen! There's a friend
for you, a friend who changes not, a friend who soothes all your
troubles with a soft caress, a mesmeric touch of balmy forgetfulness.
I slept a dreamless sleep. Then I heard a voice borne toward me as if
coming from far over a sea, the waves bringing it nearer and nearer.
'Awake!' it cried; 'awake! The night is far spent; the day is at hand.
Awake!'
I wondered vaguely over this voice as to what manner of voice it might
be, but it came again, and again, and finally I awoke to find it at my
side. The gray light of dawn came through the open windows, and Raymond
was already up, engaged with a tub of water and crash towels. Again the
chant sounded in my ears.
'Very well, very well,' I said, testily. 'But if you sing before
breakfast you'll cry before night, Waiting Samuel.'
Our host had disappeared, however, without hearing my flippant speech,
and slowly I rose from my fragrant couch; the room was empty save for
our two mounds, two tubs of water, and a number of towels hanging on
nails. 'Not overcrowded with furniture,' I remarked.
'From Maine to Florida, from Massachusetts to Missouri, have I
travelled, and never before found water enough,' said Raymond. 'If
waiting for the judgment day raises such liberal ideas of tubs and
towels, I would that all the hotel-keepers in the land could be convened
here to take a lesson.'
Our green hunting-clothes were soon donned, and we went out into the
hall; a flight of broad steps led up to the roof; Roxana appeared at the
top and beckoned us thither. We ascended, and found ourselves on the
flat roof. Samuel stood with his face toward the east and his arms
outstretched, watching the horizon; behind was Roxana, with her hands
clasped on her breast and her head bowed: thus they waited. The eastern
sky was bright with golden light; rays shot upward toward the zenith,
where the rose-lights of dawn were retreating down to the west, which
still lay in the shadow of night; there was not a sound; the Flats
stretched out dusky and still. Two or three minutes passed, and then a
dazzling rim appeared above the horizon, and the first gleam of sunshine
was shed over the level earth; simultaneously the two began a chant,
simple as a Gregorian, but rendered in correct full tones. The words,
apparently, had been collected from the Bible:--
"The heavens declare the glory of God--
Joy cometh in the morning!
In them is laid out the path of the sun--
Joy cometh in the morning!
As a bride groom goeth he forth;
As a strong man runneth his race,
The outgoings of the morning
Praise thee, O Lord!
Like a pelican in the wilderness,
Like a sparrow upon the house top,
I wait for the Lord.
It is good that we hope and wait,
Wait--wait.
The chant over, the two stood a moment silently, as if in contemplation,
and then descended, passing us without a word or sign, with their hands
clasped before them as though forming part of an unseen procession.
Raymond and I were left alone upon the house-top.
'After all, it is not such a bad opening for a day; and there is the
pelican of the wilderness to emphasize it,' I said, as a heron flew up
from the water, and, slowly flapping his great wings, sailed across to
another channel. As the sun rose higher, the birds began to sing; first
a single note here and there, then a little trilling solo, and finally
an outpouring of melody on all sides,--land-birds and water-birds, birds
that lived in the Flats, and birds that had flown thither for
breakfast,--the whole waste was awake and rejoicing in the sunshine.
'What a wild place it is!' said Raymond. 'How boundless it looks! One
hill in the distance, one dark line of forest, even one tree, would
break its charm. I have seen the ocean, I have seen the prairies, I have
seen the great desert, but this is like a mixture of the three. It is an
ocean full of land,--a prairie full of water,--a desert full of
verdure.'
'Whatever it is, we shall find in it fishing and aquatic hunting to our
hearts' content,' I answered.
And we did. After a breakfast delicious as the supper, we took our boat
and a lunch-basket, and set out. 'But how shall we ever find our way
back?' I said, pausing as I recalled the network of runs, and the
will-o'-the-wisp aspect of the house, the previous evening.
'There is no other way but to take a large ball of cord with you, fasten
one end on shore, and let it run out over the stern of the boat,' said
Roxana. 'Let it run out loosely, and it will float on the water. When
you want to come back you can turn around and wind it in as you come.
_I_ can read the Flats like a book, but they're very blinding to most
people; and you might keep going round in a circle. You will do better
not to go far, anyway. I'll wind the bugle on the roof an hour before
sunset; you can start back when you hear it; for it's awkward getting
supper after dark.' With this musical promise we took the clew of twine
which Roxana rigged for us in the stern of our boat, and started away,
first releasing Captain Kidd, who was pacing his islet in sullen
majesty, like another Napoleon on St. Helena. We took a new channel and
passed behind the house, where the imported cattle were feeding in their
little pasture; but the winding stream soon bore us away, the house sank
out of sight, and we were left alone.
We had fine sport that morning among the ducks,--wood, teal, and
canvas-back,--shooting from behind our screens woven of rushes; later in
the day we took to fishing. The sun shone down, but there was a cool
September breeze, and the freshness of the verdure was like early
spring. At noon we took our lunch and a _siesta_ among the water-lilies.
When we awoke we found that a bittern had taken up his position near by,
and was surveying us gravely:--
"'The moping bittern, motionless and stiff,
That on a stone so silently and stilly
Stands, an apparent sentinel, as if
To guard the water-lily,'"
quoted Raymond. The solemn bird, in his dark uniform, seemed quite
undisturbed by our presence; yellow-throats and swamp-sparrows also came
in numbers to have a look at us; and the fish swam up to the surface and
eyed us curiously. Lying at ease in the boat, we in our turn looked down
into the water. There is a singular fascination in looking down into a
clear stream as the boat floats above; the mosses and twining
water-plants seem to have arbors and grottoes in their recesses, where
delicate marine creatures might live, naiads and mermaids of miniature
size; at least we are always looking for them. There is a fancy, too,
that one may find something,--a ring dropped from fair fingers idly
trailing in the water; a book which the fishes have read thoroughly; a
scarf caught among the lilies; a spoon with unknown initials; a drenched
ribbon, or an embroidered handkerchief. None of these things did we
find, but we did discover an old brass breastpin, whose probable glass
stone was gone. It was a paltry trinket at best, but I fished it out
with superstitious care,--a treasure-trove of the Flats. '"Drowned,"' I
said, pathetically, '"drowned in her white robes--"'
'And brass breastpin,' added Raymond, who objected to sentiment, true or
false.
'You Philistine! Is nothing sacred to you?'
'Not brass jewelry, certainly.'
'Take some lilies and consider them,' I said, plucking several of the
queenly blossoms floating along-side.
"Cleopatra art thou, regal blossom,
Floating in thy galley down the Nile,--
All my soul does homage to thy splendor,
All my heart grows warmer in thy smile;
Yet thou smilest for thine own grand pleasure,
Caring not for all the world beside,
As in insolence of perfect beauty,
Sailest thou in silence down the tide.
"Loving, humble river all pursue thee,
Wafted are their kisses at thy feet;
Fiery sun himself cannot subdue thee,
Calm thou smilest through his raging heat;
Naught to thee the earth's great crowd of blossoms,
Naught to thee the rose-queen on her throne;
Haughty empress of the summer waters,
Livest thou, and diest, all alone."
This from Raymond.
'Where did you find that?' I asked.
'It is my own.'
'Of course! I might have known it. There is a certain rawness of style
and versification which--'
'That's right,' interrupted Raymond; 'I know just what you are going to
say. The whole matter of opinion is a game of 'follow-my-leader'; not
one of you dares admire anything unless the critics say so. If I had
told you the verses were by somebody instead of a nobody, you would have
found wonderful beauties in them.'
'Exactly. My motto is, 'Never read anything unless it is by a somebody.'
For, don't you see, that a nobody, if he is worth anything, will grow
into a somebody, and, if he isn't worth anything you will have saved
your time!'
'But it is not merely a question of growing,' said Raymond; 'it is a
question of critics.'
'No; there you are mistaken. All the critics in the world can neither
make nor crush a true poet.'
'What is poetry?' said Raymond, gloomily.
At this comprehensive question, the bittern gave a hollow croak, and
flew away with his long legs trailing behind him. Probably he was not of
an aesthetic turn of mind, and dreaded lest I should give a ramified
answer.
Through the afternoon we fished when the fancy struck us, but most of
the time we floated idly, enjoying the wild freedom of the watery waste.
We watched the infinite varieties of the grasses, feathery,
lance-leaved, tufted, drooping, banner-like, the deer's tongue, the
wild-celery, and the so-called wild-rice, besides many unknown beauties
delicately fringed, as difficult to catch and hold as thistle-down.
There were plants journeying to and fro on the water like nomadic tribes
of the desert; there were fleets of green leaves floating down the
current; and now and then we saw a wonderful flower with scarlet bells
but could never approach near enough to touch it.
At length, the distant sound of the bugle came to us on the breeze, and
I slowly wound in the clew, directing Raymond as he pushed the boat
along, backing water with the oars. The sound seemed to come from every
direction. There was nothing for it to echo against, but, in place of
the echo, we heard a long, dying cadence, which sounded on over the
Flats fainter and fainter in a sweet, slender note, until a new tone
broke forth. The music floated around us, now on one side, now on the
other; if it had been our only guide, we should have been completely
bewildered. But I wound the cord steadily; and at last suddenly, there
before us, appeared the house with Roxana on the roof, her figure
outlined against the sky. Seeing us, she played a final salute, and then
descended, carrying the imprisoned music with her.
That night we had our supper at sunset. Waiting Samuel had his meals by
himself in the front room. 'So that in case the spirits come, I shall
not be there to hinder them,' explained Roxana. 'I am not holy, like
Samuel; they will not speak before me.'
'Do you have your meals apart in the winter, also?' asked Raymond.
'Yes.'
'That is not very sociable,' I said.
'Samuel never was sociable,' replied Roxana. 'Only common folks are
sociable; but he is different. He has great gifts, Samuel has.'
The meal over, we went up on the roof to smoke our cigars in the open
air; when the sun had disappeared and his glory had darkened into
twilight, our host joined us. He was a tall man, wasted and gaunt, with
piercing dark eyes and dark hair, tinged with gray; hanging down upon
his shoulders. (Why is it that long hair on the outside is almost always
the sign of something wrong in the inside of a man's head?) He wore a
black robe like a priest's cassock, and on his head a black skull-cap
like the _Faust_ of the operatic stage.
'Why were the Flats called St. Clair?' I said; for there is something
fascinating to me in the unknown history of the West. 'There isn't any,'
do you say? you I mean, who are strong in the Punic wars! you, too, who
are so well up in Grecian mythology. But there is history, only we don't
know it. The story of Lake Huron in the time of the Pharaohs, the story
of the Mississippi during the reign of Belshazzar, would be worth
hearing. But it is lost? All we can do is to gather together the details
of our era,--the era when Columbus came to this New World, which was,
nevertheless, as old as the world he left behind.
'It was in 1679,' began Waiting Samuel, 'that La Salle sailed up the
Detroit River in his little vessel of sixty tons burden, called the
Griffin. He was accompanied by thirty-four men, mostly fur-traders; but
there were among them two holy monks, and Father Louis Hennepin, a friar
of the Franciscan order. They passed up the river and entered the little
lake just south of us, crossing it and these Flats on the 12th of
August, which is St. Clair's day. Struck with the gentle beauty of the
scene, they named the waters after their saint, and at sunset sang a _Te
Deum_ in her honor.'
'And who was Saint Clair?'
'Saint Clair, virgin and abbess, born in Italy, in 1193, made superior
of a convent by the great Francis, and canonized for her distinguished
virtues,' said Samuel, as though reading from an encyclopaedia.
'Are you a Roman Catholic?' asked Raymond.
'I am everything; all sincere faith is sacred to me,' replied the man.
'It is but a question of names.'
'Tell us of your religion,' said Raymond, thoughtfully; for in religions
Raymond was something of a polyglot.
'You would hear of my faith? Well, so be it. Your question is the work
of spirit influence. Listen, then. The great Creator has sowed immensity
with innumerable systems of suns. In one of these systems a spirit
forgot that he was a limited, subordinate being, and misused his
freedom; how, we know not. He fell, and with him all his kind. A new
race was then created for the vacant world, and, according to the fixed
purpose of the Creator, each was left free to act for himself; he loves
not mere machines. The fallen spirit, envying the new creature called
man, tempted him to sin. What was his sin? Simply the giving up of his
birthright, the divine soul-sparkle, for an earthly pleasure. The triune
divine deep, the mysterious fiery triangle, which, to our finite minds,
best represents the Deity, now withdrew his personal presence; the
elements, their balance broken, stormed upon man; his body, which was
once ethereal, moving by mere volition, now grew heavy; and it was also
appointed unto him to die. The race thus darkened, crippled, and
degenerate, sank almost to the level of brutes, the mind-fire alone
remaining of all their spiritual gifts. They lived on blindly, and as
blindly died. The sun, however, was left to them, a type of what they
had lost.
'At length, in the fulness of time, the world-day of four thousand
years, which was appointed by the council in heaven for the regiving of
the divine and forfeited soul-sparkle, as on the fourth day of creation
the great sun was given, there came to earth the earth's compassionate
Saviour, who took upon himself our degenerate body, and revivified it
with the divine soul-sparkle, who overcame all our temptations, and
finally allowed the tinder of our sins to perish in his own painful
death upon the cross. Through him our paradise body was restored, it
waits for us on the other side of the grave. He showed us what it was
like on Mount Tabor, with it he passed through closed doors, walked upon
the water, and ruled the elements; so will it be with us. Paradise will
come again; this world will, for a thousand years, see its first estate;
it will be again the Garden of Eden. America is the great
escaping-place; here will the change begin. As it is written, 'Those who
escape to my utmost borders.' As the time draws near, the spirits who
watch above are permitted to speak to those souls who listen. Of these
listening, waiting souls am I; therefore have I withdrawn myself. The
sun himself speaks to me, the greatest spirit of all; each morning I
watch for his coming; each morning I ask, 'Is it to-day?' Thus do I
wait.'
'And how long have you been waiting?' I asked.
'I know not; time is nothing to me.'
'Is the great day near at hand?' said Raymond.
'Almost at its dawning; the last days are passing.'
'How do you know this?'
'The spirits tell me. Abide here, and perhaps they will speak to you
also,' replied Waiting Samuel.
We made no answer. Twilight had darkened into night, and the Flats had
sunk into silence below us. After some moments I turned to speak to our
host; but, noiselessly as one of his own spirits, he had departed.
'A strange mixture of Jacob Boehmen, chiliastic dreams, Christianity,
sun-worship, and modern spiritualism,' I said. 'Much learning hath made
the Maine farmer mad.'
'Is he mad?' said Raymond. 'Sometimes I think we are all mad.'
'We should certainly become so if we spent our time in speculations upon
subjects clearly beyond our reach. The whole race of philosophers from
Plato down are all the time going round in a circle. As long as we are
in the world, I for one propose to keep my feet on solid ground;
especially as we have no wings. 'Abide here, and perhaps the spirits
will speak to you,' did he say? I think very likely they will, and to
such good purpose that you won't have any mind left.'
'After all, why should not spirits speak to us?' said Raymond, in a
musing tone.
As he uttered these words the mocking laugh of a loon came across the
dark waste.
'The very loons are laughing at you,' I said, rising. 'Come down; there
is a chill in the air, composed in equal parts of the Flats, the night,
and Waiting Samuel. Come down, man; come down to the warm kitchen and
common-sense.'
We found Roxana alone by the fire, whose glow was refreshingly real and
warm; it was like the touch of a flesh-and-blood hand, after vague
dreamings of spirit-companions, cold and intangible at best, with the
added suspicion that, after all, they are but creations of our own
fancy, and even their spirit-nature fictitious. Prime, the graceful
_raconteur_ who goes a-fishing, says, 'firelight is as much of a
polisher in-doors as moonlight outside.' It is; but with a different
result. The moonlight polishes everything into romance, the firelight
into comfort. We brought up two remarkably easy old chairs in front of
the hearth and sat down, Raymond still adrift with his wandering
thoughts, I, as usual, making talk out of the present. Roxana sat
opposite, knitting in hand, the cat purring at her feet. She was a
slender woman, with faded light hair, insignificant features, small dull
blue eyes, and a general aspect which, with every desire to state at
its best, I can only call commonplace. Her gown was limp, her hands
roughened with work, and there was no collar around her yellow throat. O
magic rim of white, great is thy power! With thee, man is civilized;
without thee, he becomes at once a savage.
'I am out of pork,' remarked Roxana, casually; 'I must go over to the
mainland to-morrow and get some.'
If it had been anything but pork! In truth, the word did not chime with
the mystic conversation of Waiting Samuel. Yes; there was no doubt about
it. Roxana's mind was sadly commonplace.
'See what I have found,' I said, after a while, taking out the old
breastpin. 'The stone is gone; but who knows? It might have been a
diamond dropped by some French duchess, exiled, and fleeing for life
across these far Western waters; or perhaps that German Princess of
Brunswick-Wolfen-something-or-other, who, about one hundred years ago,
was dead and buried in Russia, and travelling in America at the same
time, a sort of a female wandering Jew, who has been done up in stories
ever since.'
(The other day, in Bret Harte's 'Melons,' I saw the following: 'The
singular conflicting conditions of John Brown's body and soul were, at
that time, beginning to attract the attention of American youth.' That
is good, isn't it? Well, at the time I visited the Flats, the singular
conflicting conditions of the Princess of
Brunswick-Wolfen-something-or-other had, for a long time, haunted me.)
Roxana's small eyes were near-sighted; she peered at the empty setting,
but said nothing.
'It is water-logged,' I continued, holding it up in the firelight, 'and
it hath a brassy odor; nevertheless, I feel convinced that it belonged
to the princess.'
Roxana leaned forward and took the trinket; I lifted up my arms and gave
a mighty stretch, one of those enjoyable lengthenings-out which belong
only to the healthy fatigue of country life. When I drew myself in
again, I was surprised to see Roxana's features working, and her rough
hands trembling, as she held the battered setting.
'It was mine,' she said; 'my dear old cameo breastpin that Abby gave me
when I was married. I saved it and saved it, and wouldn't sell it, no
matter how low we got, for someway it seemed to tie me to home and
baby's grave. I used to wear it when I had baby--I had neck-ribbons
then; we had things like other folks, and on Sundays we went to the old
meeting-house on the green. Baby is buried there--O baby, baby!' and the
voice broke into sobs.
'You lost a child?' I said, pitying the sorrow which was, which must be,
so lonely, so unshared.
'Yes. O baby! baby!' cried the woman, in a wailing tone. 'It was a
little boy, gentlemen, and it had curly hair, and could just talk a word
or two; its name was Ethan, after father, but we all called it Robin.
Father was mighty proud of Robin, and mother, too. It died, gentlemen,
my baby died, and I buried it in the old churchyard near the thorn-tree.
But still I thought to stay there always along with mother and the
girls; I never supposed anything else, until Samuel began to see
visions. Then, everything was different, and everybody against us; for,
you see, I would marry Samuel, and when he left off working and began to
talk to the spirits, the folks all said, 'I told yer so, Maria Ann!'
Samuel wasn't of Maine stock exactly: his father was a sailor, and 't
was suspected that his mother was some kind of an East-Injia woman, but
no one knew. His father died and left the boy on the town, so he lived
round from house to house until he got old enough to hire out. Then he
came to our farm, and there he stayed. He had wonderful eyes, Samuel
had, and he had a way with him--well, the long and short of it was, that
I got to thinking about him, and couldn't think of anything else. The
folks didn't like it at all, for, you see, there was Adam Rand, who had
a farm of his own over the hill; but I never could bear Adam Rand. The
worst of it was, though, that Samuel never so much as looked at me,
hardly. Well, it got to be the second year, and Susan, my younger
sister, married Adam Rand. Adam, he thought he'd break up my nonsense,
that's what they called it, and so he got a good place for Samuel away
down in Connecticut, and Samuel said he'd go, for he was always
restless, Samuel was. When I heard it, I was ready to lie down and die.
I ran out into the pasture and threw myself down by the fence like a
crazy woman. Samuel happened to come by along the lane, and saw me; he
was always kind to all the dumb creatures, and stopped to see what was
the matter, just as he would have stopped to help a calf. It all came
out then, and he was awful sorry for me. He sat down on the top bar of
the fence and looked at me, and I sat on the ground a-crying with my
hair down, and my face all red and swollen.
'I never thought to marry, Maria Ann,' says he.
'O, please do, Samuel,' says I, 'I'm a real good housekeeper, I am, and
we can have a little land of our own, and everything nice--'
'But I wanted to go away. My father was a sailor,' he began, a-looking
off toward the ocean.
'O, I can't stand it,' says I, beginning to cry again. Well after that
he 'greed to stay at home and marry me, and the folks they had to give
in to it when they saw how I felt. We were married on Thanksgiving day,
and I wore a pink delaine, purple neck-ribbon, and this very breastpin
that sister Abby gave me,--it cost four dollars, and came 'way from
Boston. Mother kissed me, and said she hoped I'd be happy.
'Of course I shall, mother,' says I, 'Samuel has great gifts; he isn't
like common folks.'
'But common folks is a deal comfortabler,' says mother. The folks never
understood Samuel.
'Well, we had a chirk little house and bit of land, and baby came, and
was so cunning and pretty. The visions had begun to appear then, and
Samuel said he must go.
'Where?' says I.
'Anywhere the spirits lead me,' says he.
'But baby couldn't travel, and so it hung along; Samuel left off work,
and everything ran down to loose ends; I did the best I could, but it
wasn't much. Then baby died, and I buried him under the thorn-tree, and
the visions came thicker and thicker; Samuel told me as how this time he
must go. The folks wanted me to stay behind without him; but they never
understood me nor him. I could no more leave him than I could fly; I was
just wrapped up in him. So we went away; I cried dreadfully when it came
to leaving the folks and Robin's little grave, but I had so much to do
after we got started, that there wasn't time for anything but work. We
thought to settle in ever so many places, but after a while there would
always come a vision, and I'd have to sell out and start on. The little
money we had was soon gone, and then I went out for days' work, and
picked up any work I could get. But many's the time we were cold, and
many's the time we were hungry, gentlemen. The visions kept coming, and
by and by I got to like 'em too. Samuel he told me all they said when I
came home nights, and it was nice to hear all about the thousand years
of joy, when there'd be no more trouble, and when Robin would come back
to us again. Only I told Samuel that I hoped the world wouldn't alter
much, because I wanted to go back to Maine for a few days, and see all
the old places. Father and mother are dead, I suppose,' said Roxana,
looking up at us with a pathetic expression in her small dull eyes.
Beautiful eyes are doubly beautiful in sorrow; but there is something
peculiarly pathetic in small dull eyes looking up at you, struggling to
express the grief that lies within, like a prisoner behind the bars of
his small dull window.
'And how did you lose your breastpin?' I said, coming back to the
original subject.
'Samuel found I had it, and threw it away soon after we came to the
Flats; he said it was vanity.'
'Have you been here long?'
'O yes, years. I hope we shall stay here always now,--at least, I mean
until the thousand years of joy begin,--for it's quiet, and Samuel's
more easy here than in any other place. I've got used to the lonely
feeling, and don't mind it much now. There's no one near us for miles,
Rosabel Lee and Liakim; they don't come here, for Samuel can't abide
'em, but sometimes I stop there on my way over from the mainland, and
have a little chat about the children. Rosabel Lee has got lovely
children, she has! They don't stay there in the winter, though; the
winters _are_ long, I don't deny it.'
'What do you do then?'
'Well, I knit and cook, and Samuel reads to me, and has a great many
visions.'
'He has books, then!'
'Yes, all kinds; he's a great reader, and he has boxes of books about
the spirits, and such things.'
'Nine of the night. Take thou thy rest. I will lay me down in peace and
sleep, for it is thou, Lord, that makest me dwell in safety,' chanted
the voice in the hall; and our evening was over.
At dawn we attended the service on the roof; then, after breakfast, we
released Captain Kidd, and started out for another day's sport. We had
not rowed far when Roxana passed us, poling her flat-boat rapidly along;
she had a load of fish and butter, and was bound for the mainland
village. 'Bring us back a Detroit paper,' I said. She nodded and passed
on, stolid and homely in the morning light. Yes, I was obliged to
confess to myself that she _was_ commonplace.
A glorious day we had on the moors in the rushing September wind.
Everything rustled and waved and danced, and the grass undulated in long
billows as far as the eye could see. The wind enjoyed himself like mad;
he had no forests to oppose him, no heavy water to roll up,--nothing but
merry, swaying grasses. It was the west wind,--'of all the winds, the
best wind.' The east wind was given us for our sins; I have long
suspected that the east wind was the angel that drove Adam out of
Paradise. We did nothing that day,--nothing but enjoy the rushing
breeze. We felt like Bedouins of the desert, with our boat for a steed.
'He came flying upon the wings of the wind,' is the grandest image of
the Hebrew poet.
Late in the afternoon we heard the bugle and returned, following our
clew as before. Roxana had brought a late paper, and, opening it, I saw
the account of an accident,--a yacht run down on the Sound and five
drowned; five, all near and dear to us. Hastily and sadly we gathered
our possessions together; the hunting, the fishing, were nothing now;
all we thought of was to get away, to go home to the sorrowing ones
around the new-made graves. Roxana went with us in her boat to guide us
back to the little lighthouse. Waiting Samuel bade us no farewell, but
as we rowed away we saw him standing on the house-top gazing after us.
We bowed; he waved his hand; and then turned away to look at the sunset.
What were our little affairs to a man who held converse with the
spirits!
We rowed in silence. How long, how weary seemed the way! The grasses,
the lilies, the silver channels,--we no longer even saw them. At length
the forward boat stopped. 'There's the lighthouse yonder,' said Roxana.
'I won't go over there to-night. Mayhap you'd rather not talk, and
Rosabel Lee will be sure to talk to me. Good by.' We shook hands, and I
laid in the boat a sum of money to help the little household through the
winter; then we rowed on toward the lighthouse. At the turn I looked
back; Roxana was sitting motionless in her boat; the dark clouds were
rolling up behind her; and the Flats looked wild and desolate. 'God help
her!' I said.
A steamer passed the lighthouse and took us off within the hour.
Years rolled away, and I often thought of the grassy sea, and its
singularly strange associations, and intended to go there; but the
intention never grew into reality. In 1870, however, I was travelling
westward, and, finding myself at Detroit, a sudden impulse took me up to
the Flats. The steamer sailed up the beautiful river and crossed the
little lake, both unchanged. But, alas! the canal predicted by the
captain fifteen years before had been cut, and, in all its unmitigated
ugliness, stretched straight through the enchanted land. I got off at
the new and prosaic brick lighthouse, half expecting to see Liakim and
his Rosabel Lee; but they were not there, and no one knew anything about
them. And Waiting Samuel? No one knew anything about him either. I took
a skiff, and, at the risk of losing myself, I rowed away into the
wilderness, spending the day among the silvery channels, which were as
beautiful as ever. There were fewer birds; I saw no grave herons, no
sombre bitterns, and the fish had grown shy. But the water-lilies were
beautiful as of old, and the grasses as delicate and luxuriant. I had
scarcely a hope of finding the old house on the island, but late in the
afternoon, by a mere chance, I rowed up unexpectedly to its little
landing-place. The walls stood firm and the roof unbroken; I landed and
walked up the overgrown path. Opening the door, I found the few old
chairs and tables in their places, weather-beaten and decayed, the
storms had forced a way within, and the floor was insecure; but the gay
crockery was on its shelf, the old tins against the wall, and all looked
so natural that I almost feared to find the mortal remains of the
husband and wife as I went from room to room. They were not there,
however, and the place looked as if it had been uninhabited for years. I
lingered in the doorway. What had become of them? Were they dead? Or had
a new vision sent them farther toward the setting sun? I never knew,
although I made many inquiries. If dead, they were probably lying
somewhere under the shining waters; if alive, they must have 'folded
their tents, like the Arabs, and silently stolen away.'
I rowed back in the glow of the evening across the grassy sea. 'It is
beautiful, beautiful,' I thought, 'but it is passing away. Already
commerce has invaded its borders; a few more years and its loveliness
will be but a legend of the past. The bittern has vanished; the loon has
fled away. Waiting Samuel was the prophet of the waste; he has gone, and
the barriers are broken down. No artist has painted, no poet has sung
your wild, vanishing charm; but in one heart, at least, you have a
place, O lovely land of St. Clair!'