“Is he mad?” said Raymond. “Sometimes I think we are all mad.”
“We should certainly become so if we spent our time in speculations upon subjects clearly beyond our reach. The whole race of philosophers from Plato down are all the time going round in a circle. As long as we are in the world, I for one propose to keep my feet on solid ground; especially as we have no wings. ‘Abide here, and perhaps the spirits will speak to you,’ did he say? I think very likely they will, and to such good purpose that you won’t have any mind left.”
“After all, why should not spirits speak to us?” said Raymond, in a musing tone.
As he uttered these words the mocking laugh of a loon came across the dark waste.
“The very loons are laughing at you,” I said, rising. “Come down; there is a chill in the air, composed in equal parts of the Flats, the night, and Waiting Samuel. Come down, man; come down to the warm kitchen and common-sense.”
We found Roxana alone by the fire, whose glow was refreshingly real and warm; it was like the touch of a flesh-and-blood hand, after vague dreamings of spirit-companions, cold and intangible at best, with the added suspicion that, after all, they are but creations of our own fancy, and even their spirit-nature fictitious. Prime, the graceful raconteur who goes a-fishing, says, “firelight is as much of a polisher in-doors as moonlight outside.” It is; but with a different result. The moonlight polishes everything into romance, the firelight into comfort. We brought up two remarkably easy old chairs in front of the hearth and sat down, Raymond still adrift with his wandering thoughts, I, as usual, making talk out of the present. Roxana sat opposite, knitting in hand, the cat purring at her feet. She was a slender woman, with faded light hair, insignificant features, small dull blue eyes, and a general aspect which, with every desire to state at its best, I can only call commonplace. Her gown was limp, her hands roughened with work, and there was no collar around her yellow throat. O magic rim of white, great is thy power! With thee, man is civilized; without thee, he becomes at once a savage.
“I am out of pork,” remarked Roxana, casually; “I must go over to the mainland to-morrow and get some.”
If it had been anything but pork! In truth, the word did not chime with the mystic conversation of Waiting Samuel. Yes; there was no doubt about it. Roxana’s mind was sadly commonplace.
“See what I have found,” I said, after a while, taking out the old breastpin. “The stone is gone; but who knows? It might have been a diamond dropped by some French duchess, exiled, and fleeing for life across these far Western waters; or perhaps that German Princess of Brunswick-Wolfen-something-or-other, who, about one hundred years ago, was dead and buried in Russia, and travelling in America at the same time, a sort of a female wandering Jew, who has been done up in stories ever since.”
(The other day, in Bret Harte’s “Melons,” I saw the following: “The singular conflicting conditions of John Brown’s body and soul were, at that time, beginning to attract the attention of American youth.” That is good, is n’t it? Well, at the time I visited the Flats, the singular conflicting conditions of the Princess of Brunswick-Wolfen-something-or-other had, for a long time, haunted me.)
Roxana’s small eyes were near-sighted; she peered at the empty setting, but said nothing.
“It is water-logged,” I continued, holding it up in the firelight, “and it hath a brassy odor; nevertheless, I feel convinced that it belonged to the princess.”
Roxana leaned forward and took the trinket; I lifted up my arms and gave a mighty stretch, one of those enjoyable lengthenings-out which belong only to the healthy fatigue of country life. When I drew myself in again, I was surprised to see Roxana’s features working, and her rough hands trembling, as she held the battered setting.
“It was mine,” she said; “my dear old cameo breastpin that Abby gave me when I was married. I saved it and saved it, and would n’t sell it, no matter how low we got, for someway it seemed to tie me to home and baby’s grave. I used to wear it when I had baby—I had neck-ribbons then; we had things like other folks, and on Sundays we went to the old meeting-house on the green. Baby is buried there—O baby, baby!” and the voice broke into sobs.
“You lost a child?” I said, pitying the sorrow which was, which must be, so lonely, so unshared.
“Yes. O baby! baby!” cried the woman, in a wailing tone. “It was a little boy, gentlemen, and it had curly hair, and could just talk a word or two; its name was Ethan, after father, but we all called it Robin. Father was mighty proud of Robin, and mother, too. It died, gentlemen, my baby died, and I buried it in the old churchyard near the thorn-tree. But still I thought to stay there always along with mother and the girls; I never supposed anything else, until Samuel began to see visions. Then, everything was different, and everybody against us; for, you see, I would marry Samuel, and when he left off working, and began to talk to the spirits, the folks all said, ‘I told yer so, Maria Ann!’ Samuel was n’t of Maine stock exactly: his father was a sailor, and ’t was suspected that his mother was some kind of an East-Injia woman, but no one knew. His father died and left the boy on the town, so he lived round from house to house until he got old enough to hire out. Then he came to our farm, and there he stayed. He had wonderful eyes, Samuel had, and he had a way with him—well, the long and short of it was, that I got to thinking about him, and could n’t think of anything else. The folks did n’t like it at all, for, you see, there was Adam Rand, who had a farm of his own over the hill; but I never could bear Adam Rand. The worst of it was, though, that Samuel never so much as looked at me, hardly. Well, it got to be the second year, and Susan, my younger sister, married Adam Rand. Adam, he thought he ’d break up my nonsense, that ’s what they called it, and so he got a good place for Samuel away down in Connecticut, and Samuel said he ’d go, for he was always restless, Samuel was. When I heard it, I was ready to lie down and die. I ran out into the pasture and threw myself down by the fence like a crazy woman. Samuel happened to come by along the lane, and saw me; he was always kind to all the dumb creatures, and stopped to see what was the matter, just as he would have stopped to help a calf. It all came out then, and he was awful sorry for me. He sat down on the top bar of the fence and looked at me, and I sat on the ground a-crying with my hair down, and my face all red and swollen.
“‘I never thought to marry, Maria Ann,’ says he.
“‘O, please do, Samuel,’ says I, ‘I ’m a real good housekeeper, I am, and we can have a little land of our own, and everything nice—’
“‘But I wanted to go away. My father was a sailor,’ he began, a-looking off toward the ocean.
“‘O, I can’t stand it,—I can’t stand it,’ says I, beginning to cry again. Well, after that he ’greed to stay at home and marry me, and the folks they had to give in to it when they saw how I felt. We were married on Thanksgiving day, and I wore a pink delaine, purple neck-ribbon, and this very breastpin that sister Abby gave me,—it cost four dollars, and came ’way from Boston. Mother kissed me, and said she hoped I ’d be happy.
“‘Of course I shall, mother,’ says I. ‘Samuel has great gifts; he is n’t like common folks.’
“‘But common folks is a deal comfortabler,’ says mother. The folks never understood Samuel.
“Well, we had a chirk little house and bit of land, and baby came, and was so cunning and pretty. The visions had begun to appear then, and Samuel said he must go.
“‘Where?’ says I.
“‘Anywhere the spirits lead me,’ says he.
“But baby could n’t travel, and so it hung along; Samuel left off work, and everything ran down to loose ends; I did the best I could, but it was n’t much. Then baby died, and I buried him under the thorn-tree, and the visions came thicker and thicker, and Samuel told me as how this time he must go. The folks wanted me to stay behind without him; but they never understood me nor him. I could no more leave him than I could fly; I wa
s just wrapped up in him. So we went away; I cried dreadfully when it came to leaving the folks and Robin’s little grave, but I had so much to do after we got started, that there was n’t time for anything but work. We thought to settle in ever so many places, but after a while there would always come a vision, and I ’d have to sell out and start on. The little money we had was soon gone, and then I went out for days’ work, and picked up any work I could get. But many ’s the time we were cold, and many ’s the time we were hungry, gentlemen. The visions kept coming, and by and by I got to like ’em too. Samuel he told me all they said when I came home nights, and it was nice to hear all about the thousand years of joy, when there ’d be no more trouble, and when Robin would come back to us again. Only I told Samuel that I hoped the world would n’t alter much, because I wanted to go back to Maine for a few days, and see all the old places. Father and mother are dead, I suppose,” said Roxana, looking up at us with a pathetic expression in her small dull eyes. Beautiful eyes are doubly beautiful in sorrow; but there is something peculiarly pathetic in small dull eyes looking up at you, struggling to express the grief that lies within, like a prisoner behind the bars of his small dull window.
“And how did you lose your breastpin?” I said, coming back to the original subject.
“Samuel found I had it, and threw it away soon after we came to the Flats; he said it was vanity.”
“Have you been here long?”
“O yes, years. I hope we shall stay here always now,—at least, I mean until the thousand years of joy begin,—for it ’s quiet, and Samuel ’s more easy here than in any other place. I ’ve got used to the lonely feeling, and don’t mind it much now. There ’s no one near us for miles, except Rosabel Lee and Liakim; they don’t come here, for Samuel can’t abide ’em, but sometimes I stop there on my way over from the mainland, and have a little chat about the children. Rosabel Lee has got lovely children, she has! They don’t stay there in the winter, though; the winters are long, I don’t deny it.”
“What do you do then?”
“Well, I knit and cook, and Samuel reads to me, and has a great many visions.”
“He has books, then?”
“Yes, all kinds; he ’s a great reader, and he has boxes of books about the spirits, and such things.”
“Nine of the night. Take thou thy rest. I will lay me down in peace and sleep; for it is thou, Lord, only, that makest me dwell in safety,” chanted the voice in the hall; and our evening was over.
At dawn we attended the service on the roof; then, after breakfast, we released Captain Kidd, and started out for another day’s sport. We had not rowed far when Roxana passed us, poling her flat-boat rapidly along; she had a load of fish and butter, and was bound for the mainland village. “Bring us back a Detroit paper,” I said. She nodded and passed on, stolid and homely in the morning light. Yes, I was obliged to confess to myself that she was commonplace.
A glorious day we had on the moors in the rushing September wind. Everything rustled and waved and danced, and the grass undulated in long billows as far as the eye could see. The wind enjoyed himself like a mad creature; he had no forests to oppose him, no heavy water to roll up,—nothing but merry, swaying grasses. It was the west wind,—“of all the winds, the best wind.” The east wind was given us for our sins; I have long suspected that the east wind was the angel that drove Adam out of Paradise. We did nothing that day,—nothing but enjoy the rushing breeze. We felt like Bedouins of the desert, with our boat for a steed. “He came flying upon the wings of the wind,” is the grandest image of the Hebrew poet.
Late in the afternoon we heard the bugle and returned, following our clew as before. Roxana had brought a late paper, and, opening it, I saw the account of an accident,—a yacht run down on the Sound and five drowned; five, all near and dear to us. Hastily and sadly we gathered our possessions together; the hunting, the fishing, were nothing now; all we thought of was to get away, to go home to the sorrowing ones around the new-made graves. Roxana went with us in her boat to guide us back to the little lighthouse. Waiting Samuel bade us no farewell, but as we rowed away we saw him standing on the house-top gazing after us. We bowed; he waved his hand; and then turned away to look at the sunset. What were our little affairs to a man who held converse with the spirits!
We rowed in silence. How long, how weary seemed the way! The grasses, the lilies, the silver channels,—we no longer even saw them. At length the forward boat stopped. “There ’s the lighthouse yonder,” said Roxana. “I won’t go over there to-night. Mayhap you ’d rather not talk, and Rosabel Lee will be sure to talk to me. Good by.” We shook hands, and I laid in the boat a sum of money to help the little household through the winter; then we rowed on toward the lighthouse. At the turn I looked back; Roxana was sitting motionless in her boat; the dark clouds were rolling up behind her; and the Flats looked wild and desolate. “God help her!” I said.
A steamer passed the lighthouse and took us off within the hour.
Years rolled away, and I often thought of the grassy sea, and intended to go there; but the intention never grew into reality. In 1870, however, I was travelling westward, and, finding myself at Detroit, a sudden impulse took me up to the Flats. The steamer sailed up the beautiful river and crossed the little lake, both unchanged. But, alas! the canal predicted by the captain fifteen years before had been cut, and, in all its unmitigated ugliness, stretched straight through the enchanted land. I got off at the new and prosaic brick lighthouse, half expecting to see Liakim and his Rosabel Lee; but they were not there, and no one knew anything about them. And Waiting Samuel? No one knew anything about him, either. I took a skiff, and, at the risk of losing myself, I rowed away into the wilderness, spending the day among the silvery channels, which were as beautiful as ever. There were fewer birds; I saw no grave herons, no sombre bitterns, and the fish had grown shy. But the water-lilies were beautiful as of old, and the grasses as delicate and luxuriant. I had scarcely a hope of finding the old house on the island, but late in the afternoon, by a mere chance, I rowed up unexpectedly to its little landing-place. The walls stood firm and the roof was unbroken; I landed and walked up the overgrown path. Opening the door, I found the few old chairs and tables in their places, weather-beaten and decayed, the storms had forced a way within, and the floor was insecure; but the gay crockery was on its shelf, the old tins against the wall, and all looked so natural that I almost feared to find the mortal remains of the husband and wife as I went from room to room. They were not there, however, and the place looked as if it had been uninhabited for years. I lingered in the doorway. What had become of them? Were they dead? Or had a new vision sent them farther toward the setting sun? I never knew, although I made many inquiries. If dead, they were probably lying somewhere under the shining waters; if alive, they must have “folded their tents, like the Arabs, and silently stolen away.”
I rowed back in the glow of the evening across the grassy sea. “It is beautiful, beautiful,” I thought, “but it is passing away. Already commerce has invaded its borders; a few more years and its loveliness will be but a legend of the past. The bittern has vanished; the loon has fled away. Waiting Samuel was the prophet of the waste; he has gone, and the barriers are broken down. Farewell, beautiful grass-water! No artist has painted, no poet has sung your wild, vanishing charm; but in one heart, at least, you have a place, O lovely land of St. Clair!”
The Lady of Little Fishing
* * *
IT was an island in Lake Superior.
I beached my canoe there about four o’clock in the afternoon, for the wind was against me and a high sea running. The late summer of 1850, and I was coasting along the south shore of the great lake, hunting, fishing, and camping on the beach, under the delusion that in that way I was living “close to the great heart of nature,”—whatever that may mean. Lord Bacon got up the phrase; I suppose he knew. Pulling the boat high and dry on the sand with the comfortable reflect
ion that here were no tides to disturb her with their goings-out and comings-in, I strolled through the woods on a tour of exploration, expecting to find bluebells, Indian pipes, juniper rings, perhaps a few agates along-shore, possibly a bird or two for company. I found a town.
It was deserted; but none the less a town, with three streets, residences, a meeting-house, gardens, a little park, and an attempt at a fountain. Ruins are rare in the New World; I took off my hat. “Hail, homes of the past!” I said. (I cultivated the habit of thinking aloud when I was living close to the great heart of nature.) “A human voice resounds through your arches” (there were no arches,—logs won’t arch; but never mind) “once more, a human hand touches your venerable walls, a human foot presses your deserted hearth-stones.” I then selected the best half of the meeting-house for my camp, knocked down one of the homes for fuel, and kindled a glorious bonfire in the park. “Now that you are illuminated with joy, O Ruin,” I remarked, “I will go down to the beach and bring up my supplies. It is long since I have had a roof over my head; I promise you to stay until your last residence is well burned; then I will make a final cup of coffee with the meeting-house itself, and depart in peace, leaving your poor old bones buried in decent ashes.”
The ruin made no objection, and I took up my abode there; the roof of the meeting-house was still water-tight (which is an advantage when the great heart of nature grows wet). I kindled a fire on the sacerdotal hearth, cooked my supper, ate it in leisurely comfort, and then stretched myself on a blanket to enjoy an evening pipe of peace, listening meanwhile to the sounding of the wind through the great pine-trees. There was no door to my sanctuary, but I had the cosey far end; the island was uninhabited, there was not a boat in sight at sunset, nothing could disturb me unless it might be a ghost. Presently a ghost came in.
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