And, Again, In The Evening Of A
Pleasant Day, It Was My Amusement To Count The Sails In Sight.
But
As the setting sun continually brought more and more to
light, still farther in the horizon, the last count always
Had
the advantage, till, by the time the last rays streamed over the
sea, I had doubled and trebled my first number; though I could no
longer class them all under the several heads of ships, barks,
brigs, schooners, and sloops, but most were faint generic
_vessels_ only. And then the temperate twilight light, perchance,
revealed the floating home of some sailor whose thoughts were
already alienated from this American coast, and directed towards
the Europe of our dreams. I have stood upon the same hill-top
when a thunder-shower, rolling down from the Catskills and
Highlands, passed over the island, deluging the land; and, when
it had suddenly left us in sunshine, have seen it overtake
successively, with its huge shadow and dark, descending wall of
rain, the vessels in the bay. Their bright sails were suddenly
drooping and dark, like the sides of barns, and they seemed to
shrink before the storm; while still far beyond them on the sea,
through this dark veil, gleamed the sunny sails of those vessels
which the storm had not yet reached. And at midnight, when all
around and overhead was darkness, I have seen a field of
trembling, silvery light far out on the sea, the reflection of
the moonlight from the ocean, as if beyond the precincts of our
night, where the moon traversed a cloudless heaven, - and
sometimes a dark speck in its midst, where some fortunate vessel
was pursuing its happy voyage by night.
But to us river sailors the sun never rose out of ocean waves,
but from some green coppice, and went down behind some dark
mountain line. We, too, were but dwellers on the shore, like the
bittern of the morning; and our pursuit, the wrecks of snails and
cockles. Nevertheless, we were contented to know the better one
fair particular shore.
My life is like a stroll upon the beach,
As near the ocean's edge as I can go,
My tardy steps its waves sometimes o'erreach,
Sometimes I stay to let them overflow.
My sole employment 't is, and scrupulous care,
To place my gains beyond the reach of tides,
Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare,
Which ocean kindly to my hand confides.
I have but few companions on the shore,
They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea,
Yet oft I think the ocean they've sailed o'er
Is deeper known upon the strand to me.
The middle sea contains no crimson dulse,
Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view,
Along the shore my hand is on its pulse,
And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew.
The small houses which were scattered along the river at
intervals of a mile or more were commonly out of sight to us, but
sometimes, when we rowed near the shore, we heard the peevish
note of a hen, or some slight domestic sound, which betrayed
them. The lock-men's houses were particularly well placed,
retired, and high, always at falls or rapids, and commanding the
pleasantest reaches of the river, - for it is generally wider and
more lake-like just above a fall, - and there they wait for boats.
These humble dwellings, homely and sincere, in which a hearth was
still the essential part, were more pleasing to our eyes than
palaces or castles would have been. In the noon of these days,
as we have said, we occasionally climbed the banks and approached
these houses, to get a glass of water and make acquaintance with
their inhabitants. High in the leafy bank, surrounded commonly
by a small patch of corn and beans, squashes and melons, with
sometimes a graceful hop-yard on one side, and some running vine
over the windows, they appeared like beehives set to gather honey
for a summer. I have not read of any Arcadian life which
surpasses the actual luxury and serenity of these New England
dwellings. For the outward gilding, at least, the age is golden
enough. As you approach the sunny doorway, awakening the echoes
by your steps, still no sound from these barracks of repose, and
you fear that the gentlest knock may seem rude to the Oriental
dreamers. The door is opened, perchance, by some Yankee-Hindoo
woman, whose small-voiced but sincere hospitality, out of the
bottomless depths of a quiet nature, has travelled quite round to
the opposite side, and fears only to obtrude its kindness. You
step over the white-scoured floor to the bright "dresser"
lightly, as if afraid to disturb the devotions of the
household, - for Oriental dynasties appear to have passed away
since the dinner-table was last spread here, - and thence to the
frequented curb, where you see your long-forgotten, unshaven face
at the bottom, in juxtaposition with new-made butter and the
trout in the well. "Perhaps you would like some molasses and
ginger," suggests the faint noon voice. Sometimes there sits the
brother who follows the sea, their representative man; who knows
only how far it is to the nearest port, no more distances, all
the rest is sea and distant capes, - patting the dog, or dandling
the kitten in arms that were stretched by the cable and the oar,
pulling against Boreas or the trade-winds. He looks up at the
stranger, half pleased, half astonished, with a mariner's eye, as
if he were a dolphin within cast. If men will believe it, _sua
si bona norint_, there are no more quiet Tempes, nor more poetic
and Arcadian lives, than may be lived in these New England
dwellings. We thought that the employment of their inhabitants
by day would be to tend the flowers and herds, and at night, like
the shepherds of old, to cluster and give names to the stars from
the river banks.
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