O, what a still, bright night! It is the sleepOf beauteous Nature in her bridal hall.See, while the groves shadow the shining lake,How the full moon does bathe their melting green!I hear the dew-drop twang upon the pool,—Hark, hark, what music! from the rampart hills,Howlike a far off bugle, sweet and clear,Itsearches through the list’ning wilderness!—A swan—I know it by the trumpet-tone—Winging her pathless way in the cool heavens,Piping her midnight melody, she comes.
O, what a still, bright night! It is the sleep
Of beauteous Nature in her bridal hall.
See, while the groves shadow the shining lake,
How the full moon does bathe their melting green!
I hear the dew-drop twang upon the pool,—
Hark, hark, what music! from the rampart hills,
Howlike a far off bugle, sweet and clear,
Itsearches through the list’ning wilderness!—
A swan—I know it by the trumpet-tone—
Winging her pathless way in the cool heavens,
Piping her midnight melody, she comes.
Beautiful bird! upon the dark, still worldThou fallest like an angel—like a loneSweet angel from some sphere of harmony.Where art thou, where?—no speck upon the blueMy vision marks, from whence thy music ranges.And why this hour—this voiceless hour is thine—And thine alone, I cannot tell. Perchance,While all is hushed and silent but the heart,E’enthouhast human sympathies for heaven,And singest yonder in the holy deepBecause thou hast a pinion. If it be,O for a wing, upon the aerial tideTo sail with thee, a minstrel mariner!
Beautiful bird! upon the dark, still world
Thou fallest like an angel—like a lone
Sweet angel from some sphere of harmony.
Where art thou, where?—no speck upon the blue
My vision marks, from whence thy music ranges.
And why this hour—this voiceless hour is thine—
And thine alone, I cannot tell. Perchance,
While all is hushed and silent but the heart,
E’enthouhast human sympathies for heaven,
And singest yonder in the holy deep
Because thou hast a pinion. If it be,
O for a wing, upon the aerial tide
To sail with thee, a minstrel mariner!
When to a rarer height thou wheelest up,Hast thou that awful thrill of an ascension—The lone, lost feeling in the vasty vault?—O, for thine ear, to hear the ascending tonesRange the ethereal chambers!—then to feelA harmony, while from the eternal depthSteals nought but the pure starlight evermore!—And then to list the echoes, faint and mellow,Far, far below, breathe from the hollow earthFor thee, soft, sweet petition, to return.And hither, haply, thou wilt shape thy neck,And settle, like a silvery cloud, to rest,If thy wild image, flaring in the abyss,Startle thee not aloft. Lone aeronaut,That catchest, on thine airy looking-out,Glassing the hollow darkness, many a lake,Lay, for the night, thy lily bosom here,There is the deep unsounded for thy bath,The shallow for the shaking of thy plumes,The dreamy cove, or cedar-wooded isle,With galaxy of water-lilies, where,Like mild Diana ’mong the quiet stars,’Neath over-bending branches, thou wilt move,Till early warblers shake the crystal shower,And whistling pinions warn thee to thy voyage.
When to a rarer height thou wheelest up,
Hast thou that awful thrill of an ascension—
The lone, lost feeling in the vasty vault?—
O, for thine ear, to hear the ascending tones
Range the ethereal chambers!—then to feel
A harmony, while from the eternal depth
Steals nought but the pure starlight evermore!—
And then to list the echoes, faint and mellow,
Far, far below, breathe from the hollow earth
For thee, soft, sweet petition, to return.
And hither, haply, thou wilt shape thy neck,
And settle, like a silvery cloud, to rest,
If thy wild image, flaring in the abyss,
Startle thee not aloft. Lone aeronaut,
That catchest, on thine airy looking-out,
Glassing the hollow darkness, many a lake,
Lay, for the night, thy lily bosom here,
There is the deep unsounded for thy bath,
The shallow for the shaking of thy plumes,
The dreamy cove, or cedar-wooded isle,
With galaxy of water-lilies, where,
Like mild Diana ’mong the quiet stars,
’Neath over-bending branches, thou wilt move,
Till early warblers shake the crystal shower,
And whistling pinions warn thee to thy voyage.
But where art thou!—lost—spirited awayTo bowers of light by thy own dying whispers?Or does some billow of the ocean air,In its still roll around from zone to zone,All breathless to the empyrean heave thee?—There is a panting in the zenith—hush!—TheSwan—How strong her great wing times the silence!She passes over high and quietly.
But where art thou!—lost—spirited away
To bowers of light by thy own dying whispers?
Or does some billow of the ocean air,
In its still roll around from zone to zone,
All breathless to the empyrean heave thee?—
There is a panting in the zenith—hush!—
TheSwan—How strong her great wing times the silence!
She passes over high and quietly.
Now peals the living clarion anew,One vocal shower falls in and fills the vale.What witchery in the wilderness it plays!—Shrill snort the affrighted deer; across the lakeThe loon, sole sentinel, screams loud alarm;The shy fox barks; tingling in every veinI feel the wild enchantment;—hark! they come,The dulcet echoes from the distant hills,Like fainter horns responsive all the while,From misty isles, soft-stealing symphonies.
Now peals the living clarion anew,
One vocal shower falls in and fills the vale.
What witchery in the wilderness it plays!—
Shrill snort the affrighted deer; across the lake
The loon, sole sentinel, screams loud alarm;
The shy fox barks; tingling in every vein
I feel the wild enchantment;—hark! they come,
The dulcet echoes from the distant hills,
Like fainter horns responsive all the while,
From misty isles, soft-stealing symphonies.
The bright, swift river of the bark canoe,Threading the prairie ponds of Washtenung,Thy day of romance wanes. Few summers more,And the long night will pass away unwaked,Save by the house-dog, or the village bell;And she, thy minstrel queen, her ermine dipIn lonelier waters.Ah! thou wilt not stoop:Old Huron, haply, glistens on thy sky.The chasing moon-beams, glancing on thy plumes,Reveal thee now, a little beating blot,Into the pale aurora fading.There!—Sinks gently back upon her flowery couchThe startled night:—tinkle the damp wood-vaults,While slip the dew-pearls from their leafy curtain.That last soft whispering note, how spirit-like!While vainly yet my ear another waits,A sad, sweet longing lingers in my heart.
The bright, swift river of the bark canoe,
Threading the prairie ponds of Washtenung,
Thy day of romance wanes. Few summers more,
And the long night will pass away unwaked,
Save by the house-dog, or the village bell;
And she, thy minstrel queen, her ermine dip
In lonelier waters.
Ah! thou wilt not stoop:
Old Huron, haply, glistens on thy sky.
The chasing moon-beams, glancing on thy plumes,
Reveal thee now, a little beating blot,
Into the pale aurora fading.
There!—
Sinks gently back upon her flowery couch
The startled night:—tinkle the damp wood-vaults,
While slip the dew-pearls from their leafy curtain.
That last soft whispering note, how spirit-like!
While vainly yet my ear another waits,
A sad, sweet longing lingers in my heart.
Is not that a magnificent production? How does it breathe of nature in her primitive loveliness, and how completely does it wean us from the world of flesh and blood into that other oneof spiritual blessedness! How majestic, and yet how sweet is the flowing of its numbers!—reminding us of a strong but pleasant summer-evening wind, which is wont to make us strangely happy, even in our grief! Can anything be more completely exquisite than the few lines that I have marked? Is there anything in Dana, Bryant, or Longfellow, that can eclipse them? or even in the very best of England’s modern poets? There may be, but I have never been able to discover them, although I almost know by heart the poetry of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Wilson, Cowper, Goldsmith, Beattie, Shelly, Scott, Rogers, Campbell, and Mrs. Hemans.
Now comes “The Cripple Boy,” of its kind, one of the sweetest and most affecting things I ever read; and I willingly acknowledge that it has often blinded my eyes with tears. Such poetry softens the heart, and prepares us to sympathize with the unfortunate, and look with kindly feeling upon our fellows. It smooths the rugged pathway of life, by telling us that it is not the whole of life to live, nor the whole of death to die. We read, and our hearts cannot but be made wiser, even as the story of the Ancient Mariner made the heartof the Wedding Guest, and caused him to renounce his anticipated pleasure. Read and see.
Upon an Indian rush-mat, spreadWhere burr-oak boughs a coolness shed,Alone he sat,—a cripple-child,—With eyes so large, so dark and wild,And fingers, thin and pale to see,Locked upon his trembling knee.A-gathering nuts so blithe and gay,The children early tripped away;And he his mother had besoughtUnder the oak to have him brought;—It was ever his seat when black-birds sungThe wavy rustling tops among;—They calmed his pain,—they cheered his loneliness—The gales,—the music of the wilderness.
Upon an Indian rush-mat, spread
Where burr-oak boughs a coolness shed,
Alone he sat,—a cripple-child,—
With eyes so large, so dark and wild,
And fingers, thin and pale to see,
Locked upon his trembling knee.
A-gathering nuts so blithe and gay,
The children early tripped away;
And he his mother had besought
Under the oak to have him brought;—
It was ever his seat when black-birds sung
The wavy rustling tops among;—
They calmed his pain,—they cheered his loneliness—
The gales,—the music of the wilderness.
Upon a prairie, wide and wild,Looked off that suffering cripple-child:The hour was breezy, the hour was bright;—O, ’twas a lively, a lovely sight!—An eagle, sailing to and froAround a flitting cloud so white,Across the billowy grass belowDarting swift their shadows’ light;And mingled noises, sweet and clear,Noises out of the ringing wood,Were pleasing trouble in his ear,A shock how pleasant to his blood.O, happy world!—Beauty and Blessing sleptOn everything but him—he felt, and wept.
Upon a prairie, wide and wild,
Looked off that suffering cripple-child:
The hour was breezy, the hour was bright;—
O, ’twas a lively, a lovely sight!—
An eagle, sailing to and fro
Around a flitting cloud so white,
Across the billowy grass below
Darting swift their shadows’ light;
And mingled noises, sweet and clear,
Noises out of the ringing wood,
Were pleasing trouble in his ear,
A shock how pleasant to his blood.
O, happy world!—Beauty and Blessing slept
On everything but him—he felt, and wept.
Humming a lightsome tune of yore;Beside the open log-house door,Tears upon his sickly cheekSaw his mother, and so did speak;—“What makes his mother’s Henry weep?You and I the cottage keep;They hunt the nuts and clusters blue,Weary lads, for me and you;And yonder see the quiet sheep;—Why now—I wonder why you weep!”—“Mother, I wish that I could beA sailor on the breezy sea!”“A sailor on the stormy sea, my son!—What ails the boy!—what have the breezes done!”
Humming a lightsome tune of yore;
Beside the open log-house door,
Tears upon his sickly cheek
Saw his mother, and so did speak;—
“What makes his mother’s Henry weep?
You and I the cottage keep;
They hunt the nuts and clusters blue,
Weary lads, for me and you;
And yonder see the quiet sheep;—
Why now—I wonder why you weep!”—
“Mother, I wish that I could be
A sailor on the breezy sea!”
“A sailor on the stormy sea, my son!—
What ails the boy!—what have the breezes done!”
“I do!—I wish that I could beA sailor on the rolling sea;In the shadow of the sailsI would ride and rock all day,Going whither blow the gales,As I have heard a seaman say:I would, I guess, come back againFor my mother, now and then,And the curling fire so bright,When the prairie burns at night;And tell the wonders I had seenAway upon the ocean green;”—“Hush! hush! talk not about the ocean so;Better at home a hunter hale to go.”
“I do!—I wish that I could be
A sailor on the rolling sea;
In the shadow of the sails
I would ride and rock all day,
Going whither blow the gales,
As I have heard a seaman say:
I would, I guess, come back again
For my mother, now and then,
And the curling fire so bright,
When the prairie burns at night;
And tell the wonders I had seen
Away upon the ocean green;”—
“Hush! hush! talk not about the ocean so;
Better at home a hunter hale to go.”
Between a tear and sigh he smiled;And thus spake on the cripple-child:—“I would I were a hunter hale,Nimbler than the nimble doe,Bounding lightly down the dale,—But that will never be, I know!Behind our house the woodlands lie;A prairie wide and green before;And I have seen them with my eyeA thousand times or more;Yet in the woods I never strayed,Or on the prairie-border played;O, mother dear, that I could only beA sailor-boy upon the rocking sea!”
Between a tear and sigh he smiled;
And thus spake on the cripple-child:—
“I would I were a hunter hale,
Nimbler than the nimble doe,
Bounding lightly down the dale,—
But that will never be, I know!
Behind our house the woodlands lie;
A prairie wide and green before;
And I have seen them with my eye
A thousand times or more;
Yet in the woods I never strayed,
Or on the prairie-border played;
O, mother dear, that I could only be
A sailor-boy upon the rocking sea!”
You would have turned with a tear,A tear upon your cheek;She wept aloud, the woman dear,And further could not speak;The boy’s it was a bitter lotShe always felt, I trow;Yet never till then its bitternessAt heart had grieved her so.Nature had waked the eternal wish——Liberty, far and wide!And now, to win him health, with joy,She would that morn have died.Till noon she kept the shady door-way chair,But never a measure of that ancient air.
You would have turned with a tear,
A tear upon your cheek;
She wept aloud, the woman dear,
And further could not speak;
The boy’s it was a bitter lot
She always felt, I trow;
Yet never till then its bitterness
At heart had grieved her so.
Nature had waked the eternal wish—
—Liberty, far and wide!
And now, to win him health, with joy,
She would that morn have died.
Till noon she kept the shady door-way chair,
But never a measure of that ancient air.
Piped the March-wind;—pinched and slowThe deer were trooping in the snow;He saw them out of the cottage door,The lame boy sitting upon the floor:“Mother, mother, how long will it beTill the prairie go like a waving sea?Will the bare woods ever be green—and when?O, will it ever be summer again?”—She looked in silence on her child:That large eye, ever so dark and wild,Oh me, how bright!—it may have beenThat he was grown so pale and thin.It came, the emerald month, and sweetly shedBeauty for grief, and garlands for the dead.
Piped the March-wind;—pinched and slow
The deer were trooping in the snow;
He saw them out of the cottage door,
The lame boy sitting upon the floor:
“Mother, mother, how long will it be
Till the prairie go like a waving sea?
Will the bare woods ever be green—and when?
O, will it ever be summer again?”—
She looked in silence on her child:
That large eye, ever so dark and wild,
Oh me, how bright!—it may have been
That he was grown so pale and thin.
It came, the emerald month, and sweetly shed
Beauty for grief, and garlands for the dead.
The Girl of the Sky-blue Lake, is a simple Indian ballad, teeming with pictures as fresh and exquisite to behold as a full-blown wild rose of the wilderness. Some of its versification is remarkably fine, and the idea of the story pleasing and mournful to the soul,—attributes which I fancy are indispensable to the perfection of any poetry; for there is no such thing as poetry without truth, and truth is ever a subject of solemn consideration.
“Push off, push off the birch canoe,The wave and the wood are still;The screaming loon is fast asleep,And so is the whip-poor-will.
“Push off, push off the birch canoe,
The wave and the wood are still;
The screaming loon is fast asleep,
And so is the whip-poor-will.
The moonlight-blowing flowers I love—On yon little isle they grow;—”So said a black-eyed Ottawa girl,In silvery accents low.
The moonlight-blowing flowers I love—
On yon little isle they grow;—”
So said a black-eyed Ottawa girl,
In silvery accents low.
“Off, off with the bark canoe, my boy,And tarry till I come back—”“No, sister,” said the red-neck’d boy,“The panther will smell my track.
“Off, off with the bark canoe, my boy,
And tarry till I come back—”
“No, sister,” said the red-neck’d boy,
“The panther will smell my track.
Our boat upon the deep shall rock,And in it the paddles three;My little grey dog my bow shall watch,But I will keep with thee.”
Our boat upon the deep shall rock,
And in it the paddles three;
My little grey dog my bow shall watch,
But I will keep with thee.”
“Now, nay, across the lake I goAlone to the flow’ry isle;I’ll come e’er the big owl screams for day,So tarry thou here the while.
“Now, nay, across the lake I go
Alone to the flow’ry isle;
I’ll come e’er the big owl screams for day,
So tarry thou here the while.
Thou art a bounding hunter bold,As the wolf and the panther know;And thou shalt whoop at the water-starsThat flash in the skies below;And when the still woods halloo back,The braver wilt thou grow.”
Thou art a bounding hunter bold,
As the wolf and the panther know;
And thou shalt whoop at the water-stars
That flash in the skies below;
And when the still woods halloo back,
The braver wilt thou grow.”
Now half-way over the sky-blue lakeHath paddled the wild red girl;Kneeling, a wearied arm she rests,—The waters round her curl.
Now half-way over the sky-blue lake
Hath paddled the wild red girl;
Kneeling, a wearied arm she rests,—
The waters round her curl.
Away she looks, with beating heart,Away to the purple isle;Beneath it swings a bright round moon;She listeneth all the while,—Heard she one far shrill whistle-sound,Her sadness were a smile.
Away she looks, with beating heart,
Away to the purple isle;
Beneath it swings a bright round moon;
She listeneth all the while,—
Heard she one far shrill whistle-sound,
Her sadness were a smile.
The lake was still as still could be,And bright as a warrior’s blade;And, save the dash of the leaping fish,Not a waking sound was made.
The lake was still as still could be,
And bright as a warrior’s blade;
And, save the dash of the leaping fish,
Not a waking sound was made.
The lovely bright-eyed Ottawa girlHath bent o’er the low canoe,And smoothed anew her raven hairIn the glass of the shining blue.
The lovely bright-eyed Ottawa girl
Hath bent o’er the low canoe,
And smoothed anew her raven hair
In the glass of the shining blue.
And now is at the islet’s edgeThe stem of her birchen bark:And so is the bare, the springy footOf a hunter tall and dark.
And now is at the islet’s edge
The stem of her birchen bark:
And so is the bare, the springy foot
Of a hunter tall and dark.
“My deer-eyed dove,” the hunter breathed—And the maid fell at his knee:Along its lash a bright tear flashed,And thus again spake he.
“My deer-eyed dove,” the hunter breathed—
And the maid fell at his knee:
Along its lash a bright tear flashed,
And thus again spake he.
“My dark-eyed dove, the twisted shells,With tints of the blood-red snow,I’ve brought thee now, and scarlet bird,And skin of the spotted doe.”
“My dark-eyed dove, the twisted shells,
With tints of the blood-red snow,
I’ve brought thee now, and scarlet bird,
And skin of the spotted doe.”
The red girl of the sky-blue lake,She loves that chieftain bold:—He loves again: but hatred lurks,And ever by day and by night it worksIn the heart of her father old.
The red girl of the sky-blue lake,
She loves that chieftain bold:—
He loves again: but hatred lurks,
And ever by day and by night it works
In the heart of her father old.
And hither, when the swan leads offHer brood on the sleeping swell,Beneath a climbing vine they meet,With tenderest words, in accents sweet,The tale of their loves to tell.
And hither, when the swan leads off
Her brood on the sleeping swell,
Beneath a climbing vine they meet,
With tenderest words, in accents sweet,
The tale of their loves to tell.
The Indian boy is fast asleep,And dew on his wolf-skin gray,Hath cried him weary long ago;His little grey dog is moaning low,And the big owl screams for day.
The Indian boy is fast asleep,
And dew on his wolf-skin gray,
Hath cried him weary long ago;
His little grey dog is moaning low,
And the big owl screams for day.
Poor lonely sleeping Indian boy,—How wild are his fitful dreams?—In mirth she comes; and sinking nowTo the water-moon she seems.
Poor lonely sleeping Indian boy,—
How wild are his fitful dreams?
—In mirth she comes; and sinking now
To the water-moon she seems.
A wolf is trotting in the brake,All under the panthers’ limb;But they have licked a fawn’s sweet blood,And careless are grown of him.
A wolf is trotting in the brake,
All under the panthers’ limb;
But they have licked a fawn’s sweet blood,
And careless are grown of him.
Then darker grew the shadowy woods,And bent with a crackling sound;Shines through the dark the flashing foamOn the pebbled beach around.
Then darker grew the shadowy woods,
And bent with a crackling sound;
Shines through the dark the flashing foam
On the pebbled beach around.
Too late the warning loon has yell’dTo the shallow-wading crane;For now the thunder blast is up,And whirls the driving rain.
Too late the warning loon has yell’d
To the shallow-wading crane;
For now the thunder blast is up,
And whirls the driving rain.
O, red girl of the sky-blue lake,Look well to thy dancing bark;The wind is loud, the wave is white,And the breaking morn is dark;
O, red girl of the sky-blue lake,
Look well to thy dancing bark;
The wind is loud, the wave is white,
And the breaking morn is dark;
The wind is loud, the wave is white,Look well to thy slender oar:The loon hath need of its wing of jetTo battle the might of the waves, that fretAlong to the foamy shore.
The wind is loud, the wave is white,
Look well to thy slender oar:
The loon hath need of its wing of jet
To battle the might of the waves, that fret
Along to the foamy shore.
Alone, upon the frothy beach,In the still and pleasant morn,The Ottawa child is waiting yet,But frightened and forlorn.
Alone, upon the frothy beach,
In the still and pleasant morn,
The Ottawa child is waiting yet,
But frightened and forlorn.
His eyes are red, his hair is wild;He hath donned his wolf-skin gray;His shivering dog is moaning low;The child hath turned him round to go,—He can no longer stay.
His eyes are red, his hair is wild;
He hath donned his wolf-skin gray;
His shivering dog is moaning low;
The child hath turned him round to go,—
He can no longer stay.
Yet once, with aching heart, he looksTo the isle of flowers again;It seems a sleeping bank of greenUpon a silvery plain.
Yet once, with aching heart, he looks
To the isle of flowers again;
It seems a sleeping bank of green
Upon a silvery plain.
Within its shade, the voiceless swansAre sailing two by two;But never his eye can catch a glimpseOf the maiden’s birch canoe;—The bow-neck’d swans are all that moveUpon the silvery blue.
Within its shade, the voiceless swans
Are sailing two by two;
But never his eye can catch a glimpse
Of the maiden’s birch canoe;—
The bow-neck’d swans are all that move
Upon the silvery blue.
Turn home, heart-broken child! turn home;That bark is in the deep;And she has gone with the tinted shellsTo their own green caves to sleep.
Turn home, heart-broken child! turn home;
That bark is in the deep;
And she has gone with the tinted shells
To their own green caves to sleep.
Her spirit owns a brighter isleThan floats the moon below;Where never the thunder-blast is heard,She lists to the song of the scarlet bird,And plays with the beautiful doe.
Her spirit owns a brighter isle
Than floats the moon below;
Where never the thunder-blast is heard,
She lists to the song of the scarlet bird,
And plays with the beautiful doe.
There! for this letter you owe me an oyster supper,—but if you will give me that beautiful engraving from Claude, hanging in your study, I will call the matter settled.
I was a passenger on board one of those noble steamers which navigate the Sound. The hurly-burly attending our departure from the dock was at last ended, and I had a good opportunity to wander quietly about the boat, studying, as it is my wont to do, the variously marked countenances of my fellow passengers. When the supper bell rang, there was a general movement made towards the after-cabin, and as I fell in with the crowd, I happened to cast my eye upon the only group left behind. This was composed of a middle-aged man and his three children. The latter were getting ready to retire to rest, and the youngest one, a sweet little girl of perhaps three years of age, ever and anon kept questioning her father as follows—“where’s mother, pa?—pa, where’s mother? When will she come back?” The kind and delicate attentions of the father, as hesmoothed the pillows and laid them in their nest, tended to interest my feelings; and, when at the supper-table, my fancy was busy with the scene just witnessed.
It was now quite late; the lazily-uttered joke, and the less frequent peal of laughter, seemed to announce the spiritual presence of repose. The newspaper, the book, and checker-board, were gradually laid aside, and in a little while nearly all the berth-curtains were drawn up, and their occupants in the arms of sleep. Many of the lamps were out, and those that did remain produced a dim, solemn twilight throughout the cabin—the only part at all animated being that corner where the boot-black was engaged in his appropriate duty. The cause of my own wakefulness it is unnecessary to relate; suffice it to say, it was entirely dispelled by the following incident.
Just as I was about to retire, the sigh of a burdened heart smote my ear, and as I turned, I beheld an individual sitting near a berth, with his face resting upon the pillow, weeping bitterly. He was a fine, intelligent looking man, in the prime of life; and on nearer observation, I found him to be the identicalone, who had before attracted my attention. I approached his seat, and, in as kind a tone as possible, inquired the cause of his unhappiness; adding, that I should be pleased to do for him anything he might desire. For a moment, a fresh flood of tears was my only answer; but these he soon wiped away, and extending to me his hand, he thus began to speak.
“I am grateful to you, my dear Sir, for your expressions of kindness and sympathy towards me, but the weight which is resting upon my spirit cannot be easily dispelled. I have been sorely afflicted of late, and the associations connected with that event are what caused me to forget myself, and give vent to my emotions in tears. To be found weeping like a child, in the midst of a multitude of strangers, may be considered a weakness, I hope not a sin; but that you may understand my conduct, I will relate to you the cause.
“One short month ago, as I paused to consider my condition, I fancied myself to be one of the happiest of men. My cottage-home, which stands in one of the fairest valleys of New Hampshire, was then a perfect picture of contentment and peace. A much-loved wife,and three children, were then the joys of my existence. Every pleasurable emotion which I enjoyed was participated in by her, who was my first and only love. From our united hearts, every morning and evening, ascended a deep-felt prayer of gratitude to our Heavenly Father; and from the same source sprang every hope concerning the temporal prospects of our children, and, to us and them, of the life beyond the grave. We were at peace with God, and with regard to this world, we had everything we desired.
“The time of harvest being now ended, and an urgent invitation having been received from my father-in-law, I concluded to take my family, and make a visit to the pleasant village in New Jersey, where my wife and I were children together, and where we had plighted our early love-vows. All things were ready, and, leaving our homestead to the care of a servant, we started on our journey,—reaching in due time, and in safety, our place of destination.
“We found our friends all well, and glad to see us. Not a care or trouble rested on a single heart. Thankful for the blessings of the past and present, all our prospects of thefuture were as bright as heart could desire. ‘Old familiar faces’ greeted us at every corner, old friendships were again revived, and a thousand delightful associations crowded around us, so that we had nothing to do but be happy.
“Thus had two weeks passed away, when, on the very night previous to ourintendeddeparture for home, my wife was suddenly taken ill, and when the morrow dawned,—I was a widower, and my children motherless. The idol of my heart, instead of returning to her earthly home, was summoned by her Maker to that blessed home above the stars, where the happiness of the redeemed will never end. God is great, and His will be done; but, alas, it almost breaks my heart to think of those bitter, bitter words—‘never more.’ I cannot bear to think of it; never more upon the earth shall I behold that beauteous form, and listen to that heavenly voice, which were my delight and pride. To my eye, the greenness of earth is forever departed. O who can tell what a day or an hour may bring forth? O how lonely, lonely, is my poor, poor, poor heart!”
These last words of my stranger friendwere uttered in a smothered tone, and with a drooping head; and, though he held my arm after I had risen to go, I tore myself away, for I thought it my duty to retire.
When I awoke in the morning, after a troubled sleep, I found the boat was at the dock, and the day somewhat advanced. My first thought was concerning the unhappy stranger, with whom I longed to have another interview; but in making diligent search I found that he was gone, and with him his three sweet orphan children. His form, and the few words he had spoken, seemed to me like a dream. O yes, they were indeed the substance of a vision—a dream of human life. Surely, surely life is but a vapor, which appeareth for a little season, and then vanisheth away. As the great Jeremy Taylor hath eloquently written: “Death meets us everywhere, and is procured by every instrument, and in all chances, and enters in at many doors; by violence and secret influence, by the aspect of a star, by the emissions of a cloud and the melting of a vapor, by the fall of a chariot and the stumbling of a stone, by a full meal or an empty stomach, by watching at the wine, or by watching at prayers,by the sun or the moon, by a heat or a cold, by sleepless nights or sleeping days, by water frozen into the hardness and sharpness of a dagger, or water thawed into the floods of a river, by a hair or a raisin, by violent motion, or sitting still, by severity or dissolution, by God’s mercy or God’s anger, by everything in providence and everything in manners, by everything in nature and everything in chance. We take pains to heap up things useful to our life, and get our death in the purchase; and the person is snatched away, and the goods remain. And all this is the law and constitution of nature; it is a punishment to our sins, the unalterable event of providence, and the decree of heaven. The chains that confine us to this condition are strong as destiny, and immutable as the eternal laws of God.”
This picture of man’s condition is indeed most melancholy, but let us remember it is not a hopeless one. Only let us keep the commandments, and confide in the promises of the Invisible, and we shall eventually find that the laws regulating our final redemption will prove to be as immutable as those concerning our earthly condition.
On Monday morning of last week I started from Norwich, bound to New London, and from thence to any other portion of the world where I might have some sport in the way of salt-water fishing. In less than an hour after landing from the steamboat, I had boarded the handsome smack Orleans, Captain Keeney, and by dint of much persuasion secured a berth on board to accompany him on a fishing voyage. In addition to my previous preparation, I had only to purchase a Guernsey shirt and tarpaulin; and by the time I was regularly equipped, the sails were hoisted, and we were on our course for Nantucket. An intimate acquaintance was soon formed between myself and crew, which consisted of the master, two sailors, and the cook. The whole time that I spent in their company was six days, as I reached home on the following Saturdayevening. The incidents that I met with were somewhat new, as a matter of course, and I employed a few moments of every evening during my absence, in briefly recording the events of the past day; and that medley I now put together as a literary chowder.
Monday Evening.My observations to-day have been limited to our little vessel, in consequence of a dense fog, which drenched us to the skin, and seems likely to continue us in this state of preservation. I have obtained some information, however, concerning the character of an interesting class of men, which may be new to you. Smack-fishermen are a brave, hardy, honest, and simple-hearted race, and as my Captain tells me, spend nine-tenths of their time “rocked in the cradle of the deep.” Their vessels, or smacks, are generally of about forty tons burthen; the number of those which supply New York and Boston with fish is said to be near a thousand, and they are all at home anywhere on the coast between the Kennebeck and the Delaware. Of the perils which these fishermen endure, and the privations they suffer, how little is known or thought by the great world at large! Yet I believe there is as muchgenuine happiness in their lives, as in those of any other class. Their fathers were fishermen before them, and as they themselves have mostly been born within hearing of the surf, they look upon the unsounded deep as their fitting home, their only home, and would not part with it for a palace or a crown. Four is the usual number of a smack’s crew, and the master is invariably called a skipper. Most of them are worthy husbands and fathers, whose families are snugly harbored in some convenient seaport, with enough and to spare of the good things of life. They are a jovial set of men, hailing each other upon the ocean as friends, and meeting upon land as brothers. Each skipper thinks his craft the handsomest and swiftest that floats, and very exciting are the races they sometimes run. Their affection for their own vessel is like that of the Arab for his steed, and like the Arab, too, they have been known even to weep over the grave of their darling and their pride.
The kinds of fish which they mostly bring to market are shad, salmon, lobsters, mackerel, cod, bluefish, haddock, blackfish, paugies, bass, and halibut. The first three are generallypurchased of local fisherman, but all the rest are caught by themselves. The haunts of the blackfish are rocky reefs, those of the bass and bluefish in the vicinity of sandy shoals or tide rips, and those of the remainder in about fifteen fathom water. These are the varieties they capture by way of business, but when in a frolicsome mood they frequently attack a sword-fish, a shark, or black whale; and soul-thrilling indeed, and laughable withal, are the yarns they spin concerning these exploits.
As to their mode of living, while at sea, it is just what it should be, and what they would have it, although it would be “positively shocking” to a Bond Street gentleman of leisure. But they always possess a good appetite, which is what money cannot purchase, and without which the greatest delicacy in the world would be insipid or loathsome. Fish, sea-biscuit, corned-beef and pork, potatoes, onions, and pancakes, constitute their provisions, and what besides these would a reasonable man desire? It is with a mixture of some of these, that achowderis concocted, and where can anything more delicious be found, even at the tables of the Astor and American? And with these ingredients, moreover, theymanage very well to keep body and soul together, unless a storm on a rock-bound coast happens to make a sudden separation.
I have just been on deck, and must say that I resume my pen with a heavier heart. The fog has not dispersed in the least, a regular gale of wind is blowing from the north, and the waves, seemingly in a revengeful mood, are tossing our bark about, as if the skipper, like the Ancient Mariner, had shot another albatros. But like a fearless man, as he is, he stands at the helm, watching the sails with a steady eye, and the men with their storm-jackets on are standing by, muttering something about the coming darkness, and a reef somewhere on our lee. Never before have I so distinctly understood the force of the Psalmist’s simile, when he compares a wave to a drunken man reeling to and fro. Both have it in their power to cause a mighty mischief, and both become exhausted and perish,—one upon a sandy beach, and the other, sweeping over the peninsula of time, finds a grave on the shore of oblivion. Heavens! how the wind whistles, and the waters roar! Aye, but a still small voice salutes my ear, and I lay me down to sleep, with a prayer upon my lips, and afeeling of security at my heart, as I place implicit confidence in Him who holdeth the ocean in the hollow of his hand.
Tuesday Evening.I was awakened out of a deep sleep this morning by the following salutation from the skipper, as he patted me on the shoulder. “It’s a beautiful morning, and you ought to be up,—the fog is gone, and the wind is down; won’t you come up and take the helm awhile,—so that the boys and I may obtain a little sleep before reaching the fishing-ground, which will be about ten o’clock?” I was delighted to accept the invitation, and in a very short time the sailors were asleep, and I in my new station, proud as a king, and happy as a sinless boy. And oh that I could describe the scene that fascinated my eyes as I lay there upon the deck, with one arm reposing on the rudder, and my other hand grasping a Claude glass! I felt as I once felt before, when standing on the famous precipice of Niagara, that then, more than ever, I desired God to be my friend. I also felt, that if the world did not demand the feeble services of my life, I should wish to remain upon the ocean forever, provided I could have “one fair being for my minister.” More earnestlythan ever did I long for a complete mastery of my art. The fact of being out sight of land, where the blue element announced that the ocean was soundless, filled my soul with that “lone, lost feeling,” which is supposed to be the eagle’s, when journeying to the zenith of the sky. The sun had just risen above the waves, and the whole Eastern portion of the heavens was flooded with the most exquisite coloring I ever beheld,—from the deepest crimson to the faintest and most delicate purple, from the darkest yellow to an almost invisible green; and all blended, too, in a myriad of forms of marvellous loveliness. A reflection of this scene was also visible in the remaining quarters of the horizon. Around me the illimitable deep, whose bosom is studded with many a gallant and glittering ship,
that have the plainOf ocean for their own domain.
that have the plain
Of ocean for their own domain.
The waves are lulling themselves to rest, and a balmy breeze is wandering by, as if seeking its old grandfather, who kicked up the grand rumpus last night; whereby I learn, that the offspring of a “rough and stormy sire,” are sometimes very beautiful and affectionate to the children of men. But look, even thedwellers in the sea and of the sea are participating in the hilarity of this bright autumnal morning! Here, a school of herring are skipping along like a frolicsome party of vagabonds as they are,—and yonder a shark has leaped out of the water, to display the symmetry of his form and the largeness of his jaw, and looking as if he thought “that land lubber would make me a first-rate breakfast;” there, a lot of porpoises are playing “leap-frog,” or some otheroutlandishgame; and, a little beyond them, a gentleman sword-fish is swaggering along to parts unknown, to fight a duel in cold blood with some equally cold-blooded native of the Atlantic; and now, a flock of gulls are cleaving their course to the South, to the floating body perhaps of a drowned mariner, which their sagacity has discovered a league or two away,—and now, again, I notice a flock of petrels, hastening onward to where the winds blow and the waves are white. Such are the pictures I beheld in my brief period of command. It may have been but fancy, but I thought my little vessel was trying to eclipse her former beauty and her former speed. One thing I know, that she “walked the water like a thingof life.” I fancied, too, that I was the identical last man whom Campbell saw in his vision, and that I was then bound to the haven of eternal rest. But my shipmates returning from the land of Nod, and a certain clamor within my own body having caught my ear, I became convinced that to break my fast would make me happier than anything else just at that time, and I was soon as contented as an alderman at five P. M. About two hours after this we reached our fishing place, which was twenty miles east of Nantucket. We then lowered the jib and topsail, and having luffed and fastened the mainsheet, so that the smack could easily float, we hauled out our lines and commenced fishing, baiting our hooks with clams, of which we had some ten bushels on board. Cod fishing (for we were on a codding cruize) is rather dull sport; it is, in fact, what I would call hard labor. In six hours we had caught all the skipper wanted, or that the well would hold, so we made sail again, bound to New York; and at supper-time the deck of our smack was as clean and dry, as if it had never been pressed save by the feet of ladies. At sunset, however, a fierce southerly wind sprang up, so that we were compelled tomake a harbor; and just as I am closing this record, we are anchoring at Nantucket, with a score of storm-beaten whales on our starboard bow.
Wednesday Evening.The weather to-day has been quite threatening, and the skipper thought it best to remain at our moorings; but with me the day has not been devoid of interest; for, in my sailor garb, I have been strolling about the town, studying the great and solemn drama of life, while playfully acting a subordinate part myself. This morning, as it happened, I went into the public grave-yard, and spent an hour conning over the rude inscriptions to the memory of the departed. In that city of the dead I saw a number of the living walking to and fro, but there was one who attracted my particular attention. He was a seaman of noble presence, seated upon an unmarked mound, with his feet resting upon a smaller one beside it, his head reclined upon one hand, while the other was occasionally passed across his face, as if wiping away a tear. I hailed him with a few kind questions, and my answer was the following brief tale.
“Yes, sir, four years ago I shipped aboard that whaler yonder, leaving behind me, in asweet little cottage of my own, a dear, first-rate mother, a good wife, and an only boy. They were all in the enjoyment of good health, and happy; and, when we were under sail, and I saw from the mast-head how kindly they waved their handkerchiefs beside my door, I too was happy, even in my hour of grief. Since that time I have circumnavigated the globe, and every rare curiosity I could obtain was intended for my darling ones at home. Last Saturday our ship returned. And while yet a league from port, I was again at the mast head, looking with an anxious heart towards my nest upon the shore. I saw that the blinds were closed, and that all around was very still; but ‘they are only gone a visiting,’ thought I, and rejoiced at heart. I landed, flew to my dwelling, and found it locked. The flagging in my yard attracted my notice, and I thought it strange that the rank grass had been suffered to grow over it so thickly. The old minister passed by my gate, and running to him with extended hand, I inquired for my family. ‘Oh Mr. B.,’ said he, ‘you must bless the Lord,—he gave them to you, and he hath taken them away.’ And as the thought stole into mybrain, my suffering, Sir, was intense, and I longed to die. And there they are, my wife and darling child, and, a step or two beyond, my dear old mother. Peace to their memories. As for me, I am a victim to blight and desolation, and that sacred song which my mother used to be so fond of singing on Sabbath evenings long ago, that song I can understand now:—
‘I would not live alway; I ask not to stayWhere storm after storm rises dark o’er the way;The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here,Are enough for life’s woes, full enough for its cheer.’
‘I would not live alway; I ask not to stay
Where storm after storm rises dark o’er the way;
The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here,
Are enough for life’s woes, full enough for its cheer.’
In a few days I mean to deliver up my property to the Seaman’s Friend Society, and then launching upon the deep once more, become, and forever, a wanderer from my native land.”
Such is the simple story I heard in the Nantucket grave-yard, and I have pondered much upon the world of woe which must be hidden in the breast of that old mariner. May the tale not have been recorded in vain.
After dinner, to-day, I got into company with some fishermen who were going after bass and bluefish, and in a short time I had captured, with my own hands, two big bassand some dozen bluefish,—which I packed in ice as a present to some New York friends.
At my present time of writing, which is near ten o’clock at night, we are weighing anchor, and the skipper tells me we shall be in New York by to-morrow’s sunset. An hour before coming on board this evening, I lounged into a sailor boarding-house, and mingled as freely with a company of whalemen there, as if I had ever been abonâ fidemember of the craft. I heard a great deal that interested me, and was sorry that I could not remain longer. There were some in that company lately arrived from every portion of the world, and yet they were engaged in the same business, and had journeyed on the same mighty highway of nations. One was descanting upon the coral islands of the Torrid zone, another upon the ice-mountains of the Arctic Sea, a third was describing the coast of California, and another the waters that lave the Eastern shore of Asia. The more I listened to these men the more did the immensity of ocean expand before my mind, and in the same proportion was I led to wonder at the wisdom of the Almighty.
I have just been on deck, and find that we are on the way to our desired haven, wafted by a steady and pleasant breeze. Our course is between Martha’s Vineyard and Rhode Island, which is a route studded with islands and seaports, that now appear in the cool starlight like the pictures of a dream.
Thursday Evening.Instead of coming through the Sound last night, we headed our vessel outside of Long Island, and after a delightful sail have realized our skipper’s promise, for we are now floating beside the market in New York. The reason assigned for taking the outside course was, that the fish would keep better, on account of the greater coldness of the water. Nothing of peculiar interest has happened to us to-day, except the meeting with a wreck off Sandy Hook. It was the hull of a large ship, whose name we could not discern. It had a very old appearance, and from the moss and sea-weed that covered it, we supposed it must have been afloat for many months, the plaything of the waves. “Man marks the earth with ruin,” but who is it that scatters such splendid ruins upon the ocean? And a thousand thousand remorseless surges echo back the answer: “To us, belong theglory of those deeds.” If that wreck had language, what a strange, eventful history would it reveal! Its themes would be,—home and all its treasures lost; the sea, and all its dangers; the soul, and all its agonies; the heart, and all its sufferings. But when we multiply all this as fast as time is multiplying it, we cannot but realize the idea, that human life is but a probationary state, and that sorrow and sighing are our earthly inheritance.
Friday Evening.After portioning out my fish this morning, and sending them to my friends, I put on my usual dress, and having obtained a six hours’ furlough, set off towards Broadway, where, between the Mercantile Library reading rooms and the studios of a few artists, I managed to spend my time quite pleasantly. At noon we embarked for home, and had a delightful time, passing through the East River, and that pleasing panorama from the city to the Sound never appeared more beautiful.
It is now quite late, and I have been on deck all the evening alone. In a thoughtful mood I fixed my eyes upon the stars, and my spirits were saddened by the continual murmur of the sea. Of what avail, thought I, is allthis excitement? Why was I created, and what, O what is my destiny? Is it to sail for a few brief years longer upon the ocean of life, and, when the death-tempest overtakes me, to pass away unloved and unremembered by a single human heart? If not an honored name, can I not leave behind me an humble memory, that will be cherished by a few, a very few, to whom I have laid bare my innermost soul, when I was younger than I am, and a hundred-fold more happy? What! O night! what is my destiny? And the tears upon my cheeks were the only answer that I received,—and I descended into the cabin to my berth, to pray, to slumber, and to dream.
Saturday Evening.We anchored off New London to-day, in time for me to take the evening steamer for Norwich. When I parted with my “shipmates,” I shook each one affectionately by the hand, and thought that I might travel many years without finding a brotherhood of nobler men. I reached home as the eight o’clock bells were ringing, and was reminded that another week of precious time was gone, and “another Sabbath was begun.” That the present must be rememberedas an unprofitable week, I cannot believe, for I feel that my soul has been enlarged, and my heart humbled, by listening to the teachings of the mighty deep.