THE MONK AND THE CAVALIER.
Father Antonio had been down through the streets of the old town of
Sorrento, searching for the young stonecutter, and, finding him, had
spent some time in enlightening him as to the details of the work he
wished him to execute.
He found him not so easily kindled into devotional fervors as he had
fondly imagined, nor could all his most devout exhortations produce
one-quarter of the effect upon him that resulted from the discovery that
it was the fair Agnes who originated the design and was interested in
its execution. Then did the large black eyes of the youth kindle into
something of sympathetic fervor, and he willingly promised to do his
very best at the carving.
"I used to know the fair Agnes well, years ago," he said, "but of late
she will not even look at me; yet I worship her none the less. Who can
help it that sees her? I don't think she is so hard-hearted as she
seems; but her grandmother and the priests won't so much as allow her to
lift up her eyes when one of us young fellows goes by. Twice these five
years past have I seen her eyes, and then it was when I contrived to get
near the holy water when there was a press round it of a saint's day,
and I reached some to her on my finger, and then she smiled upon me and
thanked me. Those two smiles are all I have had to live on for all
this time. Perhaps, if I work very well, she will give me another, and
perhaps she will say, 'Thank you, my good Pietro!' as she used to, when
I brought her birds' eggs or helped her across the ravine, years ago."
"Well, my brave boy, do your best," said the monk, "and let the shrine
be of the fairest white marble. I will be answerable for the expense; I
will beg it of those who have substance."
"So please you, holy father," said Pietro, "I know of a spot, a little
below here on the coast, where was a heathen temple in the old days; and
one can dig therefrom long pieces of fair white marble, all covered with
heathen images. I know not whether your Reverence would think them fit
for Christian purposes."
"So much the better, boy! so much the better!" said the monk, heartily.
"Only let the marble be fine and white, and it is as good as converting
a heathen any time to baptize it to Christian uses. A few strokes of the
chisel will soon demolish their naked nymphs and other such rubbish, and
we can carve holy virgins, robed from head to foot in all modesty, as
becometh saints."
"I will get my boat and go down this very afternoon," said Pietro; "and,
Sir, I hope I am not making too bold in asking you, when you see the
fair Agnes, to present unto her this lily, in memorial of her old
playfellow."
"That I will, my boy! And now I think of it, she spoke kindly of you as
one that had been a companion in her childhood, but said her grandmother
would not allow her to speak to you now."
"Ah, that is it!" said Pietro. "Old Elsie is a fierce old kite, with
strong beak and long claws, and will not let the poor girl have any good
of her youth. Some say she means to marry her to some rich old man, and
some say she will shut her up in a convent, which I should say was a
sore hurt and loss to the world. There are a plenty of women, whom
nobody wants to look at, for that sort of work; and a beautiful face is
a kind of psalm which makes one want to be good."
"Well, well, my boy, work well and faithfully for the saints on this
shrine, and I dare promise you many a smile from this fair maiden; for
her heart is set upon the glory of God and his saints, and she will
smile on any one who helps on the good work. I shall look in on you
daily for a time, till I see the work well started."
So saying, the old monk took his leave. Just as he was passing out of
the house, some one brushed rapidly by him, going down the street. As he
passed, the quick eye of the monk recognized the cavalier whom he had
seen in the garden but a few evenings before. It was not a face and form
easily forgotten, and the monk followed him at a little distance behind,
resolving, if he saw him turn in anywhere, to follow and crave an
audience of him.
Accordingly, as he saw the cavalier entering under the low arch that
led to his hotel, he stepped up and addressed him with a gesture of
benediction.
"God bless you, my son!"
"What would you with me, father?" said the cavalier, with a hasty and
somewhat suspicious glance.
"I would that you would give me an audience of a few moments on some
matters of importance," said the monk, mildly.
The tones of his voice seemed to have excited some vague remembrance in
the mind of the cavalier; for he eyed him narrowly, and seemed trying
to recollect where he had seen him before. Suddenly a light appeared to
flash upon his mind; for his whole manner became at once more cordial.
"My good father," he said, "my poor lodging and leisure are at your
service for any communication you may see fit to make."
So saying, he led the way up the damp, ill-smelling stone staircase, and
opened the door of the deserted room where we have seen him once before.
Closing the door, and seating himself at the one rickety table which the
room afforded, he motioned to the monk to be seated also; then taking
off his plumed hat, he threw it negligently on the table beside him, and
passing his white, finely formed hand through the black curls of his
hair, he tossed them carelessly from his forehead, and, leaning his chin
in the hollow of his hand, fixed his glittering eyes on the monk in a
manner that seemed to demand his errand.
"My Lord," said the monk, in those gentle, conciliating tones which
were natural to him, "I would ask a little help of you in regard of a
Christian undertaking which I have here in hand. The dear Lord hath put
it into the heart of a pious young maid of this vicinity to erect a
shrine to the honor of our Lady and her dear Son in this gorge of
Sorrento, hard by. It is a gloomy place in the night, and hath been said
to be haunted by evil spirits; and my fair niece, who is full of all
holy thoughts, desired me to draw the plan for this shrine, and, so far
as my poor skill may go, I have done so. See here, my Lord, are the
drawings."
The monk laid them down on the table, his pale cheek flushing with a
faint glow of artistic enthusiasm and pride, as he explained to the
young man the plan and drawings.
The cavalier listened courteously, but without much apparent interest,
till the monk drew from his portfolio a paper and said,--
"This, my Lord, is my poor and feeble conception of the most sacred form
of our Lady, which I am to paint for the centre of the shrine."
He laid down the paper, and the cavalier, with a sudden exclamation,
snatched it up, looking at it eagerly.
"It is she!" he said; "it is her very self!--the divine Agnes,--the lily
flower,--the sweet star,--the only one among women!"
"I see you have recognized the likeness," said the monk, blushing.
"I know it hath been thought a practice of doubtful edification to
represent holy things under the image of aught earthly; but when any
mortal seems especially gifted with a heavenly spirit outshining in the
face, it may be that our Lady chooses that person to reveal herself in."
The cavalier was gazing so intently on the picture that he scarcely
heard the apology of the monk; he held it up, and seemed to study it
with a long admiring gaze.
"You have great skill with your pencil, my father," he said; "one would
not look for such things from under a monk's hood."
"I belong to the San Marco in Florence, of which you may have heard,"
said Father Antonio, "and am an unworthy disciple of the traditions of
the blessed Angelico, whose visions of heavenly things are ever before
us; and no less am I a disciple of the renowned Savonarola, of whose
fame all Italy hath heard before now."
"Savonarola?" said the other, with eagerness,--"he that makes these vile
miscreants that call themselves Pope and Cardinals tremble? All Italy,
all Christendom, is groaning and stretching out the hand to him to free
them from these abominations. My father, tell me of Savonarola: how goes
he, and what success hath he?"
"My son, it is now many months since I left Florence; since which time
I have been sojourning in by-places, repairing shrines and teaching the
poor of the Lord's flock, who are scattered and neglected by the idle
shepherds, who think only to eat the flesh and warm themselves with the
fleece of the sheep for whom the Good Shepherd gave his life. My duties
have been humble and quiet; for it is not given to me to wield the sword
of rebuke and controversy, like my great master."
"And you have not heard, then," said the cavalier, eagerly, "that they
have excommunicated him?"
"I knew that was threatened," said the monk, "but I did not think it
possible that it could befall a man of such shining holiness of life,
so signally and openly owned of God that the very gifts of the first
Apostles seem revived in him."
"Does not Satan always hate the Lord," said the cavalier. "Alexander
and his councils are possessed of the Devil, if ever men were,--and are
sealed as his children by every abominable wickedness. The Devil sits in
Christ's seat, and hath stolen his signet-ring, to seal decrees against
the Lord's own followers. What are Christian men to do in such case?"
The monk sighed and looked troubled.
"It is hard to say," he answered. "So much I know,--that before I left
Florence our master wrote to the King of France touching the dreadful
state of things at Rome, and tried to stir him up to call a general
council of the Church. I much fear me this letter may have fallen into
the hands of the Pope."
"I tell you, father," said the young man, starting up and laying his
hand on his sword, "_we must fight_! It is the sword that must decide
this matter! Was not the Holy Sepulchre saved from the Infidels by the
sword?--and once more the sword must save the Holy City from worse
infidels than the Turks. If such doings as these are allowed in the Holy
City, another generation there will be no Christians left on earth.
Alexander and Caesar Borgia and the Lady Lucrezia are enough to drive
religion from the world. They make us long to go back to the traditions
of our Roman fathers,--who were men of cleanly and honorable lives and
of heroic deeds, scorning bribery and deceit. They honored God by noble
lives, little as they knew of Him. But these men are a shame to the
mothers that bore them."
"You speak too truly, my son," said the monk. "Alas! the creation
groaneth and travaileth in pain with these things. Many a time and oft
have I seen our master groaning and wrestling with God on this account.
For it is to small purpose that we have gone through Italy preaching and
stirring up the people to more holy lives, when from the very hill of
Zion, the height of the sanctuary, come down these streams of pollution.
It seems as if the time had come that the world could bear it no
longer."
"Well, if it come to the trial of the sword, as come it must," said the
cavalier, "say to your master that Agostino Sarelli has a band of one
hundred tried men and an impregnable fastness in the mountains, where he
may take refuge, and where they will gladly hear the Word of God from
pure lips. They call us robbers,--us who have gone out from the assembly
of robbers, that we might lead honest and cleanly lives. There is not
one among us that hath not lost houses, lands, brothers, parents,
children, or friends, through their treacherous cruelty. There be those
whose wives and sisters have been forced into the Borgia harem; there be
those whose children have been tortured before their eyes,--those who
have seen the fairest and dearest slaughtered by these hell-hounds, who
yet sit in the seat of the Lord and give decrees in the name of Christ.
Is there a God? If there be, why is He silent?"
"Yea, my son, there is a God," said the monk; "but His ways are not as
ours. A thousand years in His sight are but as yesterday, as a watch in
the night. He shall come, and shall not keep silence."
"Perhaps you do not know, father," said the young man, "that I, too,
am excommunicated. I am excommunicated, because, Caesar Borgia having
killed my oldest brother, and dishonored and slain my sister, and seized
on all our possessions, and the Pope having protected and confirmed him
therein, I declare the Pope to be not of God, but of the Devil. I will
not submit to him, nor be ruled by him; and I and my fellows will make
good our mountains against him and his crew with such right arms as the
good Lord hath given us."
"The Lord be with you, my son!" said the monk; "and the Lord bring His
Church out of these deep waters! Surely, it is a lovely and beautiful
Church, made dear and precious by innumerable saints and martyrs who
have given their sweet lives up willingly for it; and it is full of
records of righteousness, of prayers and alms and works of mercy that
have made even the very dust of our Italy precious and holy. Why hast
Thou abandoned this vine of Thy planting, O Lord? The boar out of the
wood doth waste it; the wild beast of the field doth devour it. Return,
we beseech Thee, and visit this vine of Thy planting!"
The monk clasped his hands and looked upward pleadingly, the tears
running down his wasted cheeks. Ah, many such strivings and prayers
in those days went up from silent hearts in obscure solitudes, that
wrestled and groaned under that mighty burden which Luther at last
received strength to heave from the heart of the Church.
"Then, father, you do admit that one may be banned by the Pope, and may
utterly refuse and disown him, and yet be a Christian?"
"How can I otherwise?" said the monk. "Do I not see the greatest saint
this age or any age has ever seen under the excommunication of the
greatest sinner? Only, my son, let me warn you. Become not irreverent to
the true Church, because of a false usurper. Reverence the sacraments,
the hymns, the prayers all the more for this sad condition in which you
stand. What teacher is more faithful in these respects than my master?
Who hath more zeal for our blessed Lord Jesus, and a more living faith
in Him? Who hath a more filial love and tenderness towards our blessed
Mother? Who hath more reverent communion with all the saints than he?
Truly, he sometimes seems to me to walk encompassed by all the armies of
heaven,--such a power goes forth in his words, and such a holiness in
his life."
"Ah," said Agostino, "would I had such a confessor! The sacraments might
once more have power for me, and I might cleanse my soul from unbelief."
"Dear son," said the monk, "accept a most unworthy, but sincere follower
of this holy prophet, who yearns for thy salvation. Let me have the
happiness of granting to thee the sacraments of the Church, which,
doubtless, are thine by right as one of the flock of the Lord Jesus.
Come to me some day this week in confession, and thereafter thou shalt
receive the Lord within thee, and be once more united to Him."
"My good father," said the young man, grasping his hand, and much
affected, "I will come. Your words have done me good; but I must think
more of them. I will come soon; but these things cannot be done without
pondering; it will take some time to bring my heart into charity with
all men."
The monk rose up to depart, and began to gather up his drawings.
"For this matter, father," said the cavalier, throwing several gold
pieces upon the table, "take these, and as many more as you need ask for
your good work. I would willingly pay any sum," he added, while a faint
blush rose to his cheek, "if you would give me a copy of this. Gold
would be nothing in comparison with it."
"My son," said the monk, smiling, "would it be to thee an image of an
earthly or a heavenly love?"
"Of both, father," said the young man. "For that dear face has been more
to me than prayer or hymn; it has been even as a sacrament to me, and
through it I know not what of holy and heavenly influences have come to
me."
"Said I not well," said the monk, exulting, "that there were those on
whom our Mother shed such grace that their very beauty led heavenward?
Such are they whom the artist looks for, when he would adorn a shrine
where the faithful shall worship. Well, my son, I must use my poor art
for you; and as for gold, we of our convent take it not except for the
adorning of holy things, such as this shrine."
"How soon shall it be done?" said the young man, eagerly.
"Patience, patience, my Lord! Rome was not built in a day, and our art
must work by slow touches; but I will do my best. But wherefore, my
Lord, cherish this image?"
"Father, are you of near kin to this maid?"
"I am her mother's only brother."
"Then I say to you, as the nearest of her male kin, that I seek this
maid in pure and honorable marriage; and she hath given me her promise,
that, if ever she be wife of mortal man, she will be mine."
"But she looks not to be wife of any man," said the monk; "so, at least,
I have heard her say; though her grandmother would fain marry her to a
husband of her choosing. 'Tis a wilful woman, is my sister Elsie, and a
worldly,--not easy to persuade, and impossible to drive."
"And she hath chosen for this fair angel some base peasant churl who
will have no sense of her exceeding loveliness? By the saints, if it
come to this, I will carry her away with the strong arm!"
"That is not to be apprehended just at present. Sister Elsie is dotingly
fond of the girl, which hath slept in her bosom since infancy."
"And why should I not demand her in marriage of your sister?" said the
young man.
"My Lord, you are an excommunicated man, and she would have horror of
you. It is impossible; it would not be to edification to make the common
people judges in such matters. It is safest to let their faith rest
undisturbed, and that they be not taught to despise ecclesiastical
censures. This could not be explained to Elsie; she would drive you from
her doors with her distaff, and you would scarce wish to put your sword
against it. Besides, my Lord, if you were not excommunicated, you are of
noble blood, and this alone would be a fatal objection with my sister,
who hath sworn on the holy cross that Agnes shall never love one of your
race."
"What is the cause of this hatred?"
"Some foul wrong which a noble did her mother," said the monk; "for
Agnes is of gentle blood on her father's side."
"I might have known it," said the cavalier to himself; "her words and
ways are unlike anything in her class.--Father," he added, touching his
sword, "we soldiers are fond of cutting all Gordian knots, whether of
love or religion, with this. The sword, father, is the best theologian,
the best casuist. The sword rights wrongs and punishes evil-doers, and
some day the sword may cut the way out of this embarrass also."
"Gently, my son! gently!" said the monk; "nothing is lost by patience.
See how long it takes the good Lord to make a fair flower out of a
little seed; and He does all quietly, without bluster. Wait on Him a
little in peacefulness and prayer, and see what He will do for thee."
"Perhaps you are right, my father," said the cavalier, cordially. "Your
counsels have done me good, and I shall seek them further. But do
not let them terrify my poor Agnes with dreadful stories of the
excommunication that hath befallen me. The dear saint is breaking
her good little heart for my sins, and her confessor evidently hath
forbidden her to speak to me or look at me. If her heart were left to
itself, it would fly to me like a little tame bird, and I would
cherish it forever; but now she sees sin in every innocent, womanly
thought,--poor little dear child-angel that she is!"
"Her confessor is a Franciscan," said the monk, who, good as he was,
could not escape entirely from the ruling prejudice of his order,--"and,
from what I know of him, I should think might be unskilful in what
pertaineth to the nursing of so delicate a lamb. It is not every one to
whom is given the gift of rightly directing souls."
"I'd like to carry her off from him!" said the cavalier, between his
teeth. "I will, too, if he is not careful!" Then he added aloud,
"Father, Agnes is mine,--mine by the right of the truest worship and
devotion that man could ever pay to woman,--mine because she loves me.
For I know she loves me; I know it far better than she knows it herself,
the dear innocent child! and I will not have her torn from me to waste
her life in a lonely, barren convent, or to be the wife of a stolid
peasant. I am a man of my word, and I will vindicate my right to her in
the face of God and man."
"Well, well, my son, as I said before, patience,--one thing at a time.
Let us say our prayers and sleep to-night, to begin with, and to-morrow
will bring us fresh counsel."
"Well, my father, you will be for me in this matter?" said the young
man.
"My son, I wish you all happiness; and if this be for your best good and
that of my dear niece, I wish it. But, as I said, there must be time and
patience. The way must be made clear. I will see how the case stands;
and you may be sure, when I can in good conscience, I will befriend
you."
"Thank you, my father, thank you!" said the young man, bending his knee
to receive the monk's parting benediction.
"It seems to me not best," said the monk, turning once more, as he was
leaving the threshold, "that you should come to me at present where I
am,--it would only raise a storm that I could not allay; and so great
would be the power of the forces they might bring to bear on the child,
that her little heart might break and the saints claim her too soon."
"Well, then, father, come hither to me to-morrow at this same hour, if I
be not too unworthy of your pastoral care."
"I shall be too happy, my son," said the monk. "So be it."
And he turned from the door just as the bell of the cathedral struck the
Ave Maria, and all in the street bowed in the evening act of worship.
* * * * *
A NIGHT IN A WHERRY.
As the summer vacation drew near, and the closed shutters and
comparative quiet of the west end made one for a moment believe in the
phrase, "Nobody in town," I had, after some thought, determined to
resist the many temptations of a walking tour, and, instead of trusting
to shoe-leather, try what virtue lay in a stout pair of oars, and make a
trip by water instead of land.
But first, in what direction? The careful search of a huge chart and
some knowledge of the Northern and Eastern seaboard led me to mark out a
course along the shore of Massachusetts and among the beautiful islands
which stud the coast of Maine.
The cruise was at that time a novel one, and many were the doubts
expressed as to the seaworthiness of my boat. She was twenty-two feet
long, nine inches high, and thirty-two wide,--canvas-covered, except
about four feet of the middle section, with sufficient space to stow
two days' food and water, and to carry all the baggage necessary for a
week's voyage. The oars were made especially strong for the occasion,
of spruce, ten feet three inches in length, and nicely balanced. In
addition to provision and clothes, a gun, a couple of hundred feet of
stout line, and a boat-hook were stowed in the bottom.
The day fixed for departure rose clear. An east wind tempered the heat
of the sun; but the tide, which by starting earlier would have been in
my favor, was dead low, and would turn before I could round the northern
point of the city. After all my traps had been put on board, seating
myself carefully, the oars were handed in, and a few strokes sent me
ahead of the raft. The tide was low, dead low, in the fullest meaning of
the word; the sea-weed slowly circled and eddied round, floating neither
up nor down; while the unrippled surface of the Back Bay reflected the
city and bridges so perfectly that it was hard to tell where reality
ended and seeming began. Passing beneath the Cambridge draw, I turned
the boat's head for the next one, and kept close to the northern point
of the city. Seven bridges must be passed ere the bay opened before me.
The boat had just cleared the last, when, remembering that no matches
had been provided, and not knowing where a landing might be made, I
decided to lay in a stock before putting to sea. With a narrow shave
past the Chelsea ferry-boat, I backed water, and came alongside a raft
of ship-timber seasoning near one of the docks, tenanted by a score
or more of semi-amphibious urchins, who were running races over the
half-sunken logs, and taking all sizes of duckings, from the slight
spatter to the complete souse. Engaging the services of one of these
water-rats, by a judicious promise of a larger sum as payment than the
one intrusted to him for the purchase, I had soon a sufficient supply,
and, resting the boat-hook on one of the logs, pushed off. East Boston
ferry was quickly passed, my boat lifting and falling gracefully in the
swell of the steamer, and I began to feel the flow of the rising tide
setting steadily against her. Governor's Island showed rather hazy three
miles off; Apple Island, tufted with trees, looked in the shimmering
light like one of the palm-crowned Atolls of the Pacific; and, just
discernible through the foggy air, Deer Island and the Hospital loomed
up. A straight course would have saved at least two miles and avoided
the strength of the tide; but, though my boat drew only three inches,
and there was water enough and to spare on the flats, the sea-weed,
growing thick as grain in the harvest-field, and half floating where the
depth was three or four feet, collecting round the sharp bow as a long
tress of hay gathers round a tooth of a rake, and burying the oar-blade,
impeded all progress, and obliged me to pull almost double the distance
against the rapid tide-set of the circuitous channels. I worked through
the bends and reaches, till the deep, strong current of Shirley Gut was
to be stemmed, where the tide runs with great force,--nearly fifty feet
in depth of pure green water, eddying and whirling round, all sorts of
ripples and small whirlpools dimpling its surface,--with the rushing
sound which deep and swift water makes against its banks. A few moments'
tough pulling brought me through, and, once outside Deer Island, nothing
lay between me and Nahant. The well-known beach and the sandy headland
called "Grover" stood out at the edge of Lynn Bay, and the rise and
fall of the white surf, too distant to be heard, marked the long reef
stretching seaward. After dining, and allowing the boat to drift while
rearranging my provisions, I took my place, and, getting the proper
bearings astern, bent on the oars.
To those who have rowed only clumsy country-boats, with their awkward
row-locks and wretched oars, slimy, dirty, and leaking, trailing behind
tags and streamers of pond-weed, or who have only experimented with that
most uncivilized style of digging up the water called paddling, the real
pleasure of rowing is unknown.
Grover's Head went astern; Nahant grew more and more distinct. There was
but little wind, and the boat went rocking over the long roll of the
huge waves, cutting smoothly through their wrinkled surface. In sight
to the south and the east were the Brewsters, the outer light, and the
sails of vessels of all sizes and shapes which were slowly making their
way into the harbor. The afternoon was cloudy; but now and then a
brilliant ray of sunshine would fall on islands and vessels, lighting
them up for an instant, and then closing over again. My route took me
about three miles outside Nahant and in full view of the end of the
promontory. There was now a clear course, except that occasionally a
huge patch of floating seaweed would suddenly deaden and then stop the
boat's headway, compelling me to back water and clear the bow of the
long strands. It was at first very startling to be thus checked when
running at full speed; the sensation being that some one has grasped
the boat and is pushing her back. With the resistance come the rush and
ripple, as the sharp stem plunges through the floating mass of weed. The
wind, which had been light and baffling all the forenoon, after I had
passed Nahant, and was abreast of Egg Rock with its little whitewashed
light-house, freshened, and, veering to the southeast, blew across my
track. The vessels began to lean to its force, and the waves to rise. I
was then outside Swampscott Bay, about eight miles from land. The shore
was plainly visible, with the buildings dotted along like specks of
white, and the outlying reefs showing by the sparkle of the foam upon
them. Phillips's Beach, and the island called by the romantic name of
Ram, were now opposite. Half-Way Rock, so named from being half way from
Boston to Gloucester, was the point towards which I had been pulling for
two hours, and it could now for the first time be seen. It came in sight
as the boat was rising on a huge wave which broke under her and went
rushing shoreward, roaring savagely, with long streaks of foam down its
green back. The elevation of the eyes above the water was so small,
that, when my boat sank away in the trough of the sea, nothing could be
seen above the top of the advancing wave. I had, therefore, to watch my
chance, and when she rose, get my bearings.
Half-Way Rock is a water-washed mass of porphyritic stone, the top about
twenty feet above high tide, shaped much like a pyramid, and a few years
since was capped with a conical granite beacon, strongly built and
riveted down, but which had been two-thirds washed away by the
tremendous surf of the easterly storms. The rock stands at the outer
edge of a long sand-shoal, and is east of Salem. To the northward, a dim
blue line on the horizon, lay Cape Ann, by my reckoning, about eighteen
miles distant. I kept on pulling over the swell, which was growing
larger, not quite in the trough of the sea,--but when a particularly
large wave came easing up a little, so as to take the boat more on the
bow, the motion was not a pleasant one. It was a sort of half rolling,
half pitching,--very unlike the even, smooth slide of the early part of
the afternoon. The rock soon became plainer, and at last I rested on my
oars to watch the waves as they broke on its furrowed face. The great
rollers, which became higher as the water shoaled toward its foot,
fell upon it bursting into foam, and jetting the spray high above the
half-broken beacon. It was a beautiful sight as the spray broke under
the shadow of the seaward face and was thrown up into the sunlight.
Not heeding whither I was drifting, a nasal hail suddenly roused me to
the fact that there were other navigators in those seas. "Bo-oat ahoy!
Whar' ye bo-ound?" Giving a stroke with the larboard oar, I saw, hove
to, a fishing-schooner,--her whole crew of skipper, three men, and a boy
standing at the gangway and looking with all their ten eyes to make out,
if possible, what strange kind of sea-monster had turned up. My boat
could not have seemed very seaworthy, only seven inches above water,
disappearing in the trough of every sea that passed, then lifting its
long and slender bow of brilliant crimson above the white foam, and the
occupant apparently on a level with the water. The hail was repeated.
The answer, "Cape Ann," did not satisfy them; and the question, "Wa-ant
any he-elp?" was next bawled out. My only reply was by a shake of the
head; and settling back into my place, I gave way on the oars, and left
my fishing friends still looking and evidently very uncertain whether it
were not better to make an attempt at a rescue.
I now kept on about a mile farther toward the Cape, but found that
the time before sundown was too short to reach it. About seven miles
distant, perched on a cliff overlooking the sea, was the hospitable
mansion of Mr. T., where I was sure of a welcome and a good berth for my
boat, and which snug harbor could just be reached by nightfall. The way
lay straight across Gooseberry Shoal, on the outside of which stands
Half-Way Rock. The sea for my small boat was very heavy; but, having
full confidence in her buoyancy, I drove straight on. Upon the shoal
the color of the water changed from deep to light green; the sea was
shorter, much higher, and broke quicker; the waves washed over the stern
of the boat, burying it two feet or more, and coming almost into the
seat-room. Then she would lift herself free, and ride high and clear on
the backs of the great rollers, which would break and crush down under
her, sending her well ahead. The sunlight, falling from behind, shone
through the body of each wave, making it of the most transparent
brilliant emerald, and tinting the foam with every hue of the rainbow.
Pulling with the sea is very easy work, if the boat be long enough to
keep from broaching to,--that is, swinging sideways and rolling over, a
performance which dories are apt to indulge in. There are on the shoal
several reefs, whose black ridges are just awash at high tide; past
these the inner edge of the water deepens and the sea becomes smoother.
About an hour brought me inside what is called by the dwellers
thereabout the "outer island,"--its gray-red rocks tufted here and there
with patches of coarse grass, and weather-worn and seamed by surf and
storm, with the usual accompaniment of mackerel-gulls screaming and
soaring aloft at the approach of a stranger. When within about a quarter
of a mile of the shore, I backed round to come upon the beach stern
foremost through the surf. If the surf be high, coming ashore is a
delicate operation; for, should the boat be turned broadside on, she
would be thrown over upon the oarsman, and both washed up the beach in a
flood of sandy salt-water; so it requires some little steadiness to sit
back to the coming wave, hear the increasing roar, and feel the sudden
lift and toss shoreward which each roller gives you as it plunges down
upon the sand. Just before coming to the outer edge of the surf, I was
seen by my friends, who hastened down the cliff-road to receive me.
Resting on my oars, I waited, till, hearing a large roller coming, whose
voice gained in strength and depth as it drew nearer to the shore, I
looked behind. The crest was already beginning to curl, as it dashed
under the boat and swept me in-shore, breaking, as the stern passed, the
top of the sea, and carrying me in, full speed, with the flood of foam
and spray. After three or four quick strokes I jerked the oars out of
the row-locks, jumped into the water knee-deep, and wading dragged the
boat backwards as far as she would float, when the receding surf let
her gently down upon the sand, and before the next wave the servant
had taken the bow and I the stern and lifted her high and dry upon
the beach. And so my afternoon's pull of thirty miles was safely
and successfully finished, my boat having proved herself thoroughly
seaworthy, though my friends could hardly believe that such a craft
could be safely trusted. After removing the stores and arranging other
matters, we took her up, placed her quietly upon the grass, and left her
for the night.
The next morning was rather hazy. About nine o'clock I took my way to
the beach, and began to prepare for departure. Mr. T.'s house lies
several miles to the south and west of Cape Ann. Eastern Point, on
the Cape, was therefore the place to be steered for in a straight
line,--perhaps six miles distant. Two miles on, the white light-house on
the Point can be plainly seen. The tide was rising, and the two lines of
ripple met across the sand-bar which connects a little island with the
beach. My boat was now carried down from her night's resting-place and
set at the edge of the water. The oars being placed in readiness, two
of us waded out with her till she would just float, when, quickly and
cautiously stepping in, I met the advancing wave in time to ride over
it. The line of surf is hard to cross, unless one can catch the roller
before it begins to crest. Once outside the line, I turned and pulled
swiftly across the bar, over which the tide had risen a few inches, and,
bidding good-morning to my hospitable entertainers, set off for Eastern
Point. There was considerable swell, though not much wind. The shore
being familiar to me, I was rowing along leisurely, recognizing one
well-known cliff after another, as they came in sight, and was between
Kettle Island and the main, when a slight dampness in the air caused
me to turn my face to the eastward, and I saw coming in from the sea,
preceded by an advance guard of feathery mist, a dense bank of fog. It
swept in, blotting out sea, shore, everything but the view a few feet
around the boat. Fortunately knowing the place, and guided by the sound
of the surf, I soon neared the wet, brown rocks at the inner edge of
Kettle Island. Backing up into a little cove between two huge sea-weedy
boulders I waited, hoping that a turn in the wind might drive the mist
seaward and allow me to keep on. There I sat a full hour, watching the
star-fish, and the crabs scrambling about among the loose strands of the
olive-green and deep purple rock-weed, which looked almost black in
the shadow, while here and there, as it waved to and fro with the sea,
disclosing patches of yellow sand. Very beautiful was this natural
aquarium; but time was flying, and "The Shoals" were more than thirty
miles distant. The mist began to drive in long rifts, and a gleam of
sunshine came out, but only for a moment. I took advantage of it at
once, and pushed out from port.
The opposite shore of the cove, in the mouth of which the island lies,
was dimly discernible, and the dense foliage of the willows surrounding
the fishermen's houses loomed up in the distance, while at the extreme
end of the Point the sea broke heavily on the long protruding reef which
slanted eastward. I made rapidly for the Point, and reached the outside
line of rollers just in time; for the fog, which had been drifting
backwards and forwards and torn in long rents, now closed over again,
shutting down darker than ever. It was with the utmost difficulty that
I could make out the faint gray line of cliff and surf. On the whole,
however, it appeared best to keep on and feel my way along the coast,
navigating rather by sound than by sight. The shore grows higher as you
go northward towards Gloucester harbor, and is, if possible, more rugged
and broken than to the south. The chief danger was from sunken rocks,
which every wave submerged three or four feet, and which in the hollow
of the sea were wholly above water. I came upon one very suddenly, as
the wave was swelling above it, and the rock-weed afloat on its sunken
head looked, for the instant, like the hair of a drowning person. My
boat went directly over it, and the next moment its black crest rose in
the trough of the wave. One such chance of wreck was enough, and so I
kept farther out, losing sight almost entirely of the cliffs. The sun,
meanwhile, was pouring down an intense heat, making the fog luminous,
but not rendering the coast any more visible. I knew that before me,
somewhere, lay the reef of Norman's Woe. The huge rock on the inside of
the reef, separated from the shore by a narrow strait, I judged must be
right ahead, but not knowing how near, I kept on, cautiously looking
behind, every few strokes, and began to think I must have passed it in
the fog, when suddenly, as if it had stepped in the way, it rose before
me, its top lost in the mist, and with the sullen drip and splash of the
sea on its almost perpendicular sides. I had to back water with some
force, and, skirting the reef, stood on till fairly outside,--when,
turning shoreward again, I went on to the edge of the surf.
Resuming my former style of navigation, almost twisting my head off to
keep a sharp look-out for rocks and reefs, I came to what seemed to be
the mouth of Gloucester harbor, and there stopped for a moment. There
was no use in pulling up one side of the harbor and down the other, four
miles, while in a straight line to the Point it was only one and a half.
I had almost decided on rowing the longer distance, however, when I
heard a bell ringing somewhere in the direction of Eastern Point. It
was striking in measured time, and the sound came across the water with
great distinctness. It puzzled me a little, till I remembered there
was a fog-bell as well as a light-house on the Point. Hoping that the
tolling would continue, I aimed for the bell as straight as possible.
With a couple of strokes the shore vanished, and nothing could be seen
but fog. Rowing where there is plenty of light and yet nothing visible
is embarrassing business. One must rely wholly upon the sense of
hearing, as eyes are of no use in such a case. Fearing that the bell
might cease before I got across, I bent with a will upon the oars and
went racing through the fog. The sound grew more and more distinct with
each peal, when, suddenly as the apparition of Norman's Woe, right
before me sprang up the black dripping hull of a fishing-schooner,
becalmed, and rocking with the roll of the sea; one turn and I shot
beneath her bows, passed her, and was lost in the fog before the fat
darkey who was lazily fishing by the bowsprit could shift from one side
of the deck to the other to keep me in sight. The creaking of blocks
and the heavy flap of wet sails warned me of the neighborhood of other
vessels. In a short time I could hear the rusty grating of the pivot as
the bell turned; then my boat glided close under the rock on which the
light-house stands. At that moment the fog opened half across the bay,
showing clearly my track with more than a dozen vessels lying close by
it. The lifting was but for a moment; back rolled the cloud and all was
invisible again. I rounded the Point, however, and went ahead, pulling
along the eastern coast of the Cape in the fog.
It was hard work, this groping through the mist, and made me wish for
the Janus power of gazing out of the back of my head to save the trouble
of continually turning. The look-out was now necessarily more vigilant
than when on the lower shore, as I was entirely ignorant of the coast
and could not see twenty feet before me. The sea was calm, save the
ever-swinging ground-swell, which does not show its power till it meets
with some resistance; and though without crest, the surf on the rocks
was very high. There was nothing to deaden the force of the sea, and
it came on in huge green masses, sliding bodily up on the rocks with
a sound like distant thunder, making one feel that a boat would be
shivered to splinters, should she fall into its power. Once the breakers
nearly caught me broadside on, as I had begun to pull along the shore,
compelling me to keep outside the line of surf and thus follow it till
the rocky headland loomed up on the other side of the bay, then past the
reefs again till another bay curved inward,--nothing to be seen but fog,
dim white surf, and dimmer rocks. Once, when passing an outlying point,
I saw, for a moment, a couple of men fishing; they shouted something
which the surf rendered inaudible; then rock and fishers melted away
into the mist. After rowing in this manner for about an hour, the water
shoaled, the fog lightened, and an island appeared to the east, with the
sea rippling over the sand-bar which joined it to the shore. I pulled
on and found the depth but a few inches, just enough to cross without
touching. The island was very picturesque, and the end towards the
west was broken into ledges, on which were perched eight or ten small
weather-beaten houses. Half floating by the beach under the cliff,
or drawn up on it, were a number of dories, while a troop of little
children were wading, splashing, and shouting in the shallow water on
the bar. They stopped when they saw me, clustered together watching as
I passed, and when I was fairly over set up a shout and resumed their
play. I rowed on until two in the afternoon, when the fog became
thinner, and finding myself between two rocky headlands, in "Milk Island
Strait," as I conjectured, and it being dinner-time, I went ashore in a
little inlet, took out my provisions, and dined.
The mist, meanwhile, had disappeared, leaving the sky perfectly clear.
It was nearly three when dinner was finished. The Isles of Shoals were
full twenty-one miles distant, and if they were to be reached before
night, there was no time to be lost. So I backed out of the inlet, and,
getting the bearings, aimed for a point on the horizon where I supposed
the islands to be, and pulled without stopping for three hours. The wind
was fresh from the southeast, the sea high, and there was not the least
trace of the fog. The hills of Cape Ann, as I went on, changed from
green to blue, and the color grew fainter in the distance. The land,
which was ten miles inside to the westward, had now come nearer, and the
dark line of the woods was just visible.
It was time to see the Shoals. I turned, but the heavy sea tossed the
boat about so that it was not at all certain whether they were or were
not in sight. The only objects in view were a few small white clouds
about the horizon and the distant sails of a schooner; so again bringing
the Cape astern, I rowed on till sunset. The hills had then almost sunk
below the water, and it was full time to see White Island and the light
which would be kindled in a few moments. The boat swung into the trough
of the sea, and when on the top of a wave I looked up to the northward.
The sight was not a pleasant one for an evening pull: the sky was
covered with the dark clouds of a gathering storm rapidly rolling up,
and my old friend the fog was again working in, as the wind had shifted
to the east and north. In the distance nothing could be seen but black
sky and blacker water, while nearer crept on the line of mist, shutting
out all prospect. The Shoals were doubtless somewhere in the darkness,
but just where I could not determine. Something must be done at once
before the fog reached me. Calling a council of war, I debated. There
was no certainty of hitting the Shoals, and if I did come on them in any
other than the exact spot, my boat would be beaten into chips in five
minutes on some of the reefs which abound in that region. It would be
entirely dark when I reached the islands, and the wind and sea were
rising; it looked very much like the beginning of an easterly gale. So
the council concluded to let the Shoals go for that night, and stay out
at sea till morning. Should the gale come on, the boat could be beached
on the coast to the westward; and if the wind lulled, as it probably
would for a few hours on the next day, there was time enough to get
ashore. I was from eight to ten miles at sea, and six miles east and
south of the Shoals, as nearly as I could reckon. It was necessary to
get more to the westward to clear the islands in the night, when the
tide set in. Rowing for half an hour brought me far enough in to stop.
The fog was again all around me, and the thick clouds made it so dark
that it was impossible to see twice my boat's length. Resting on my
oars for a moment, I began to stow a few things more closely in the
seat-room, when a huge sea broke just ahead, and, striking the bow a
little on one side, whirled the boat round and rolled her half over,
pitching the crest into the seat-room and filling it with water. I
caught her with the oars barely in time to save her, and turned her
again head to the sea, keeping a watchful eye to windward. Then baling
out the seat-room, I took some crackers and a draught of water, and
turned the boat stern foremost to the sea.
It was, by guess, about nine o'clock; and there was no light except the
phosphorescence of the water. When a wave came rushing through the
fog, its black body invisible in the darkness, the crest glanced like
quicksilver and broke into ten thousand coruscations as the boat
balanced on the top,--pouring a flood of glittering water past the stern
and over the canvas cover, and dripping from the sides in sparkling
drops. Wherever a foam-bubble burst or oar dipped, it was like opening a
silver-lined casket. The boat left a luminous track, which rose with
the waves as they swelled behind her, and disappeared in the night. It
required a strong hand to keep her in her course; had she broached to, I
should have been rolled out and obliged to swim for it. A quick eye was
necessary to watch, lest, in spite of the oars, she might swing round
and turn over. The utter darkness and the storm so threatening at
sundown had come in full force. It was raining and blowing heavily, and
the strong wind driving the rain and mist in sheets across the water
deepened the hoarse roar of the sea. I was very wet, and not so fresh,
after my forty miles or more of hard, steady pulling, as in the morning;
I was also very sleepy, so that it was not easy to keep even one eye
open to look out for passing coasters,--the chief danger. My craft was
so slender they could have gone over her in the darkness and storm and
never have known it. The tide was still setting out, the sea was very
high, and there was not a ray of light from White Island. My best course
seemed to be to continue pulling slowly and keep the boat stern to the
sea till after midnight, when the tide would change and the wind would
lull for a short time,--unless it should prove to be the beginning of
the gale, and not its forerunner, as I had thought. The hours passed
slowly. There was much to do in heading straight and in easing up when
the great waves loomed through the fog. Midnight would decide whether at
day-dawn I must pull for it, and run, if possible, the line of breakers
on Rye Beach, with rather less than an even chance of coming out
right-end uppermost, or whether the wind and sea would go down so that I
could slip quietly ashore before the gale returned.
Midnight came at last; the rain ceased and the wind began to shift to
the south, and I knew that now the probability of going ashore decently
was good. The tide having turned, the wind moderated, and the sea,
though still high, was longer and did not break so quickly. Still
farther to the south veered the wind, and a little after three, as well
as I could tell by my watch, the fog thinned, so that, looking up, I
caught the faint glimmer of a star; then another peeped through the
cloud. The mist broke in several places, then drifted over, then broke
again; and, chancing to look seaward, a light flared into full blaze
for a moment, swung smaller, then vanished. There was no mistaking
it,--White Island light at last!
Backing with one oar, pulling with the other, I rose on the top of a
great sea, and caught the light again just as it began to come into
sight. Off I went, at a splendid pace, driving along in the trough and
over the crest of the waves, steering by a star behind me, for about ten
minutes; then light and stars sank back into the mist, and all was
black again. I waited a few moments, and again the light shone out; but
meantime the boat's bow had veered several points. Turning toward it,
I was off full speed this time for about five minutes, before the fog
swept in again. Then another rest on my oars. The fog drifted out and
drifted in backwards and forwards, now thinning here, then thinning
there; but no other glimpse of the light did I get that night. For a
moment, a shadowy-looking schooner glided slowly along a few hundred
feet ahead of me, and directly across my track,--then melted out into
the darkness. After waiting some time longer, finding no chance of
another glimpse of the light, I secured my oars, and, as the wind and
sea had decreased, got ready to turn in. The seat-room was only four
feet long,--two feet short of my length; and the washboard, which was
three inches in height, surrounded the seat-room and obliged me to use
the boat-sponge as a pillow. But trusting to chance that my craft would
come across nothing either fixed or floating, I retreated at once to the
land of Nod. What the weather was during the rest of that night, or what
might have been seen, I cannot say; for I did not wake till my watch
told seven in the morning. Then my eyes opened to, or rather in, as
choice a specimen of mist as had yet been met with.
It was perfectly calm; the sea was undulating slightly, and not a breath
of wind stirring. I sat up and looked around. Nothing visible but misty
atmosphere and leaden-colored water; the phosphorescent sparkle had
quite gone out of it. I listened, and with the low dull roar of the surf
on Rye Beach on one side came the break of the waves on the Shoals,
but so faint that it was doubtful whether it were really audible, when
another most unmistakable sound assured me Landlord Laighton was blowing
his breakfast-horn on Appledore Island. The familiar notes of that
very peculiar performance came clearly through the fog. Had he kept on
blowing twenty minutes longer, he would have had another guest; but he
stopped before ten strokes could be taken. So, reluctantly turning my
boat for the other shore, I pulled for the sound of the surf, which
increased as I approached it. The beach was still several miles distant,
when the short, quick rap of oars came to my ears. I knew at once the
fisherman's stroke, and, supposing that he had put out from the shore
and did not mean to stay out long, I gave chase at once, and pulled till
he stopped rowing and was apparently near. Then I hailed, and after
a twenty minutes' hunt caught a glimpse of his dory and immediately
introduced myself. He was fishing with two lines, one on each side of
the boat, and was about returning when I came up. He had never before
beheld such a craft as mine, and did not know what to make of her as she
came through the fog. He soon, however, drew in his lines, and, acting
as pilot, set out for the beach, from which we were then three miles
distant. After various twistings and circlings through the mist, the row
of sandy hillocks which backs Rye Beach appeared, and in a few moments
we pulled through the surf and landed, thus ending one part of my
summer's cruise.
* * * * *
A STORY OF TO-DAY.