{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_34392/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_34392","id":"gutenberg_34392","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34392","summary":null,"tags":["Cape Cod (Mass.) -- Description and travel","Category: American Literature","Category: Environmental Issues","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Travel Writing"],"text":"[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCape Cod\n\nby Henry David Thoreau\n\nAuthor of \u201cA Week on the Concord,\u201d \u201cWalden,\u201d\n\u201cExcursions,\u201d \u201cThe Maine Woods,\u201d etc.\n\nILLUSTRATED BY\nCLIFTON JOHNSON\n\n[Illustration]\n\nNEW YORK\nTHOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.\nPUBLISHERS\n\nCopyright, 1908\nBy THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.\nTHE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.\n\nContents\n\n INTRODUCTION\n I. The Shipwreck\n II. Stage-coach Views\n III. The Plains Of Nauset\n IV. The Beach\n V. The Wellfleet Oysterman\n VI. The Beach Again\n VII. Across the Cape\n VIII. The Highland Light\n IX. The Sea and the Desert\n X. Provincetown\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n The Clam-Digger (Photogravure)\n Cohasset\u2014The little cove at Whitehead promontory\n An old windmill\n A street in Sandwich\n The old Higgins tavern at Orleans\n A Nauset lane\n Nauset Bay\n A scarecrow\n Millennium Grove camp-meeting grounds\n A Cape Cod citizen\n Wreckage under the sand-bluff\n Herring River at Wellfleet\n A characteristic gable with many windows\n A Wellfleet oysterman\n Wellfleet\n Hunting for a leak\n Truro\u2014Starting on a voyage\n Unloading the day\u2019s catch\n A Truro footpath\n Truro meeting-house on the hill\n A herd of cows\n Pond Village\n Dragging a dory up on the beach\n An old wrecker at home\n The Highland Light\n Towing along shore\n A cranberry meadow\n The sand dunes drifting in upon the trees\n The white breakers on the Atlantic side\n In Provincetown harbor\n Provincetown\u2014A bit of the village from the wharf\n The day of rest\n A Provincetown fishing-vessel\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nOf the group of notables who in the middle of the last century made the\nlittle Massachusetts town of Concord their home, and who thus conferred\non it a literary fame both unique and enduring, Thoreau is the only one\nwho was Concord born. His neighbor, Emerson, had sought the place in\nmature life for rural retirement, and after it became his chosen\nretreat, Hawthorne, Alcott, and the others followed; but Thoreau, the\nmost peculiar genius of them all, was native to the soil.\n\nIn 1837, at the age of twenty, he graduated from Harvard, and for three\nyears taught school in his home town. Then he applied himself to the\nbusiness in which his father was engaged,\u2014the manufacture of lead\npencils. He believed he could make a better pencil than any at that\ntime in use; but when he succeeded and his friends congratulated him\nthat he had now opened his way to fortune he responded that he would\nnever make another pencil. \u201cWhy should I?\u201d said he. \u201cI would not do\nagain what I have done once.\u201d\n\nSo he turned his attention to miscellaneous studies and to nature. When\nhe wanted money he earned it by some piece of manual labor agreeable to\nhim, as building a boat or a fence, planting, or surveying. He never\nmarried, very rarely went to church, did not vote, refused to pay a tax\nto the State, ate no flesh, drank no wine, used no tobacco; and for a\nlong time he was simply an oddity in the estimation of his\nfellow-townsmen. But when they at length came to understand him better\nthey recognized his genuineness and sincerity and his originality, and\nthey revered and admired him. He was entirely independent of the\nconventional, and his courage to live as he saw fit and to defend and\nuphold what he believed to be right never failed him. Indeed, so\ndevoted was he to principle and his own ideals that he seems never to\nhave allowed himself one indifferent or careless moment.\n\nHe was a man of the strongest local attachments, and seldom wandered\nbeyond his native township. A trip abroad did not tempt him in the\nleast. It would mean in his estimation just so much time lost for\nenjoying his own village, and he says: \u201cAt best, Paris could only be a\nschool in which to learn to live here\u2014a stepping-stone to Concord.\u201d\n\nHe had a very pronounced antipathy to the average prosperous city man,\nand in speaking of persons of this class remarks: \u201cThey do a little\nbusiness commonly each day in order to pay their board, and then they\ncongregate in sitting-rooms, and feebly fabulate and paddle in the\nsocial slush, and go unashamed to their beds and take on a new layer of\nsloth.\u201d\n\nThe men he loved were those of a more primitive sort, unartificial,\nwith the daring to cut loose from the trammels of fashion and inherited\ncustom. Especially he liked the companionship of men who were in close\ncontact with nature. A half-wild Irishman, or some rude farmer, or\nfisherman, or hunter, gave him real delight; and for this reason, Cape\nCod appealed to him strongly. It was then a very isolated portion of\nthe State, and its dwellers were just the sort of independent,\nself-reliant folk to attract him. In his account of his rambles there\nthe human element has large place, and he lingers fondly over the\ncharacteristics of his chance acquaintances and notes every salient\nremark. They, in turn, no doubt found him interesting, too, though the\npurposes of the wanderer were a good deal of a mystery to them, and\nthey were inclined to think he was a pedler.\n\nHis book was the result of several journeys, but the only trip of which\nhe tells us in detail was in October. That month, therefore, was the\none I chose for my own visit to the Cape when I went to secure the\nseries of pictures that illustrate this edition; for I wished to see\nthe region as nearly as possible in the same guise that Thoreau\ndescribes it. From Sandwich, where his record of Cape experiences\nbegins, and where the inner shore first takes a decided turn eastward,\nI followed much the same route he had travelled in 1849, clear to\nProvincetown, at the very tip of the hook.\n\nThoreau has a good deal to say of the sandy roads and toilsome walking.\nIn that respect there has been marked improvement, for latterly a large\nproportion of the main highway has been macadamed. Yet one still\nencounters plenty of the old yielding sand roads that make travel a\nweariness either on foot or in teams. Another feature to which the\nnature lover again and again refers is the windmills. The last of these\nceased grinding a score of years ago, though several continue to stand\nin fairly perfect condition. There have been changes on the Cape, but\nthe landscape in the main presents the same appearance it did in\nThoreau\u2019s time. As to the people, if you see them in an unconventional\nway, tramping as Thoreau did, their individuality retains much of the\ninterest that he discovered.\n\nOur author\u2019s report of his trip has a piquancy that is quite alluring.\nThis might be said of all his books, for no matter what he wrote about,\nhis comments were certain to be unusual; and it is as much or more for\nthe revelations of his own tastes, thoughts, and idiosyncrasies that we\nread him as for the subject matter with which he deals. He had\npublished only two books when he died in 1862 at the age of forty-four,\nand his \u201cCape Cod\u201d did not appear until 1865. Nor did the public at\nfirst show any marked interest in his books. During his life,\ntherefore, the circle of his admirers was very small, but his fame has\nsteadily increased since, and the stimulus of his lively descriptions\nand observations seems certain of enduring appreciation.\n\nClifton Johnson.\n\nHadley, Mass.\n\n\n\n\nI\nTHE SHIPWRECK\n\n\nWishing to get a better view than I had yet had of the ocean, which, we\nare told, covers more than two-thirds of the globe, but of which a man\nwho lives a few miles inland may never see any trace, more than of\nanother world, I made a visit to Cape Cod in October, 1849, another the\nsucceeding June, and another to Truro in July, 1855; the first and last\ntime with a single companion, the second time alone. I have spent, in\nall, about three weeks on the Cape; walked from Eastham to\nProvincetown twice on the Atlantic side, and once on the Bay side\nalso, excepting four or five miles, and crossed the Cape half a dozen\ntimes on my way; but having come so fresh to the sea, I have got but\nlittle salted. My readers must expect only so much saltness as the land\nbreeze acquires from blowing over an arm of the sea, or is tasted on\nthe windows and the bark of trees twenty miles inland, after September\ngales. I have been accustomed to make excursions to the ponds within\nten miles of Concord, but latterly I have extended my excursions to the\nseashore.\n\nI did not see why I might not make a book on Cape Cod, as well as my\nneighbor on \u201cHuman Culture.\u201d It is but another name for the same thing,\nand hardly a sandier phase of it. As for my title, I suppose that the\nword Cape is from the French _cap_; which is from the Latin _caput_, a\nhead; which is, perhaps, from the verb _capere_, to take,\u2014that being\nthe part by which we take hold of a thing:\u2014Take Time by the forelock.\nIt is also the safest part to take a serpent by. And as for Cod, that\nwas derived directly from that \u201cgreat store of codfish\u201d which Captain\nBartholomew Gosnold caught there in 1602; which fish appears to have\nbeen so called from the Saxon word _codde_, \u201ca case in which seeds are\nlodged,\u201d either from the form of the fish, or the quantity of spawn it\ncontains; whence also, perhaps, _codling_ (_pomum coctile?_) and\ncoddle,\u2014to cook green like peas. (V. Dic.)\n\nCape Cod is the bared and bended arm of Massachusetts: the shoulder is\nat Buzzard\u2019s Bay; the elbow, or crazy-bone, at Cape Mallebarre; the\nwrist at Truro; and the sandy fist at Provincetown,\u2014behind which the\nState stands on her guard, with her back to the Green Mountains, and\nher feet planted on the floor of the ocean, like an athlete protecting\nher Bay,\u2014boxing with northeast storms, and, ever and anon, heaving up\nher Atlantic adversary from the lap of earth,\u2014ready to thrust forward\nher other fist, which keeps guard the while upon her breast at Cape\nAnn.\n\nOn studying the map, I saw that there must be an uninterrupted beach on\nthe east or outside of the forearm of the Cape, more than thirty miles\nfrom the general line of the coast, which would afford a good sea view,\nbut that, on account of an opening in the beach, forming the entrance\nto Nauset Harbor, in Orleans, I must strike it in Eastham, if I\napproached it by land, and probably I could walk thence straight to\nRace Point, about twenty-eight miles, and not meet with any\nobstruction.\n\nWe left Concord, Massachusetts, on Tuesday, October 9th, 1849. On\nreaching Boston, we found that the Provincetown steamer, which should\nhave got in the day before, had not yet arrived, on account of a\nviolent storm; and, as we noticed in the streets a handbill headed,\n\u201cDeath! one hundred and forty-five lives lost at Cohasset,\u201d we decided\nto go by way of Cohasset. We found many Irish in the cars, going to\nidentify bodies and to sympathize with the survivors, and also to\nattend the funeral which was to take place in the afternoon;\u2014and when\nwe arrived at Cohasset, it appeared that nearly all the passengers were\nbound for the beach, which was about a mile distant, and many other\npersons were flocking in from the neighboring country. There were\nseveral hundreds of them streaming off over Cohasset common in that\ndirection, some on foot and some in wagons,\u2014and among them were some\nsportsmen in their hunting-jackets, with their guns, and game-bags, and\ndogs. As we passed the graveyard we saw a large hole, like a cellar,\nfreshly dug there, and, just before reaching the shore, by a pleasantly\nwinding and rocky road, we met several hay-riggings and farm-wagons\ncoming away toward the meeting-house, each loaded with three large,\nrough deal boxes. We did not need to ask what was in them. The owners\nof the wagons were made the undertakers. Many horses in carriages were\nfastened to the fences near the shore, and, for a mile or more, up and\ndown, the beach was covered with people looking out for bodies, and\nexamining the fragments of the wreck. There was a small island called\nBrook Island, with a hut on it, lying just off the shore. This is said\nto be the rockiest shore in Massachusetts, from Nantasket to\nScituate,\u2014hard sienitic rocks, which the waves have laid bare, but have\nnot been able to crumble. It has been the scene of many a shipwreck.\n\nThe brig _St. John_, from Galway, Ireland, laden with emigrants, was\nwrecked on Sunday morning; it was now Tuesday morning, and the sea was\nstill breaking violently on the rocks. There were eighteen or twenty of\nthe same large boxes that I have mentioned, lying on a green hillside,\na few rods from the water, and surrounded by a crowd. The bodies which\nhad been recovered, twenty-seven or eight in all, had been collected\nthere. Some were rapidly nailing down the lids, others were carting the\nboxes away, and others were lifting the lids, which were yet loose, and\npeeping under the cloths, for each body, with such rags as still\nadhered to it, was covered loosely with a white sheet. I witnessed no\nsigns of grief, but there was a sober dispatch of business which was\naffecting. One man was seeking to identify a particular body, and one\nundertaker or carpenter was calling to another to know in what box a\ncertain child was put. I saw many marble feet and matted heads as the\ncloths were raised, and one livid, swollen, and mangled body of a\ndrowned girl,\u2014who probably had intended to go out to service in some\nAmerican family,\u2014to which some rags still adhered, with a string, half\nconcealed by the flesh, about its swollen neck; the coiled-up wreck of\na human hulk, gashed by the rocks or fishes, so that the bone and\nmuscle were exposed, but quite bloodless,\u2014merely red and white,\u2014with\nwide-open and staring eyes, yet lustreless, dead-lights; or like the\ncabin windows of a stranded vessel, filled with sand. Sometimes there\nwere two or more children, or a parent and child, in the same box, and\non the lid would perhaps be written with red chalk, \u201cBridget\nsuch-a-one, and sister\u2019s child.\u201d The surrounding sward was covered with\nbits of sails and clothing. I have since heard, from one who lives by\nthis beach, that a woman who had come over before, but had left her\ninfant behind for her sister to bring, came and looked into these boxes\nand saw in one,\u2014probably the same whose superscription I have\nquoted,\u2014her child in her sister\u2019s arms, as if the sister had meant to\nbe found thus; and within three days after, the mother died from the\neffect of that sight.\n\nWe turned from this and walked along the rocky shore. In the first cove\nwere strewn what seemed the fragments of a vessel, in small pieces\nmixed with sand and sea-weed, and great quantities of feathers; but it\nlooked so old and rusty, that I at first took it to be some old wreck\nwhich had lain there many years. I even thought of Captain Kidd, and\nthat the feathers were those which sea-fowl had cast there; and perhaps\nthere might be some tradition about it in the neighborhood. I asked a\nsailor if that was the _St. John_. He said it was. I asked him where\nshe struck. He pointed to a rock in front of us, a mile from the shore,\ncalled the Grampus Rock, and added:\n\n\u201cYou can see a part of her now sticking up; it looks like a small\nboat.\u201d\n\nI saw it. It was thought to be held by the chain-cables and the\nanchors. I asked if the bodies which I saw were all that were drowned.\n\n\u201cNot a quarter of them,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cWhere are the rest?\u201d\n\n\u201cMost of them right underneath that piece you see.\u201d\n\nIt appeared to us that there was enough rubbish to make the wreck of a\nlarge vessel in this cove alone, and that it would take many days to\ncart it off. It was several feet deep, and here and there was a bonnet\nor a jacket on it. In the very midst of the crowd about this wreck,\nthere were men with carts busily collecting the sea-weed which the\nstorm had cast up, and conveying it beyond the reach of the tide,\nthough they were often obliged to separate fragments of clothing from\nit, and they might at any moment have found a human body under it.\nDrown who might, they did not forget that this weed was a valuable\nmanure. This shipwreck had not produced a visible vibration in the\nfabric of society.\n\nAbout a mile south we could see, rising above the rocks, the masts of\nthe British brig which the _St. John_ had endeavored to follow, which\nhad slipped her cables and, by good luck, run into the mouth of\nCohasset Harbor. A little further along the shore we saw a man\u2019s\nclothes on a rock; further, a woman\u2019s scarf, a gown, a straw bonnet,\nthe brig\u2019s caboose, and one of her masts high and dry, broken into\nseveral pieces. In another rocky cove, several rods from the water, and\nbehind rocks twenty feet high, lay a part of one side of the vessel,\nstill hanging together. It was, perhaps, forty feet long, by fourteen\nwide. I was even more surprised at the power of the waves, exhibited on\nthis shattered fragment, than I had been at the sight of the smaller\nfragments before. The largest timbers and iron braces were broken\nsuperfluously, and I saw that no material could withstand the power of\nthe waves; that iron must go to pieces in such a case, and an iron\nvessel would be cracked up like an egg-shell on the rocks. Some of\nthese timbers, however, were so rotten that I could almost thrust my\numbrella through them. They told us that some were saved on this piece,\nand also showed where the sea had heaved it into this cove, which was\nnow dry. When I saw where it had come in, and in what condition, I\nwondered that any had been saved on it. A little further on a crowd of\nmen was collected around the mate of the _St. John_, who was telling\nhis story. He was a slim-looking youth, who spoke of the captain as the\nmaster, and seemed a little excited. He was saying that when they\njumped into the boat, she filled, and, the vessel lurching, the weight\nof the water in the boat caused the painter to break, and so they were\nseparated. Whereat one man came away, saying:\u2014\n\n\u201cWell, I don\u2019t see but he tells a straight story enough. You see, the\nweight of the water in the boat broke the painter. A boat full of water\nis very heavy,\u201d\u2014and so on, in a loud and impertinently earnest tone, as\nif he had a bet depending on it, but had no humane interest in the\nmatter.\n\nAnother, a large man, stood near by upon a rock, gazing into the sea,\nand chewing large quids of tobacco, as if that habit were forever\nconfirmed with him.\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d says another to his companion, \u201clet\u2019s be off. We\u2019ve seen the\nwhole of it. It\u2019s no use to stay to the funeral.\u201d\n\nFurther, we saw one standing upon a rock, who, we were told, was one\nthat was saved. He was a sober-looking man, dressed in a jacket and\ngray pantaloons, with his hands in the pockets. I asked him a few\nquestions, which he answered; but he seemed unwilling to talk about it,\nand soon walked away. By his side stood one of the life-boatmen, in an\noil-cloth jacket, who told us how they went to the relief of the\nBritish brig, thinking that the boat of the _St. John_, which they\npassed on the way, held all her crew,\u2014for the waves prevented their\nseeing those who were on the vessel, though they might have saved some\nhad they known there were any there. A little further was the flag of\nthe _St. John_ spread on a rock to dry, and held down by stones at the\ncorners. This frail, but essential and significant portion of the\nvessel, which had so long been the sport of the winds, was sure to\nreach the shore. There were one or two houses visible from these rocks,\nin which were some of the survivors recovering from the shock which\ntheir bodies and minds had sustained. One was not expected to live.\n\nWe kept on down the shore as far as a promontory called Whitehead, that\nwe might see more of the Cohasset Rocks. In a little cove, within half\na mile, there were an old man and his son collecting, with their team,\nthe sea-weed which that fatal storm had cast up, as serenely employed\nas if there had never been a wreck in the world, though they were\nwithin sight of the Grampus Rock, on which the _St. John_ had struck.\nThe old man had heard that there was a wreck, and knew most of the\nparticulars, but he said that he had not been up there since it\nhappened. It was the wrecked weed that concerned him most, rock-weed,\nkelp, and sea-weed, as he named them, which he carted to his barn-yard;\nand those bodies were to him but other weeds which the tide cast up,\nbut which were of no use to him. We afterwards came to the life-boat in\nits harbor, waiting for another emergency,\u2014and in the afternoon we saw\nthe funeral procession at a distance, at the head of which walked the\ncaptain with the other survivors.\n\nOn the whole, it was not so impressive a scene as I might have\nexpected. If I had found one body cast upon the beach in some lonely\nplace, it would have affected me more. I sympathized rather with the\nwinds and waves, as if to toss and mangle these poor human bodies was\nthe order of the day. If this was the law of Nature, why waste any time\nin awe or pity? If the last day were come, we should not think so much\nabout the separation of friends or the blighted prospects of\nindividuals. I saw that corpses might be multiplied, as on the field of\nbattle, till they no longer affected us in any degree, as exceptions to\nthe common lot of humanity. Take all the graveyards together, they are\nalways the majority. It is the individual and private that demands our\nsympathy. A man can attend but one funeral in the course of his life,\ncan behold but one corpse. Yet I saw that the inhabitants of the shore\nwould be not a little affected by this event. They would watch there\nmany days and nights for the sea to give up its dead, and their\nimaginations and sympathies would supply the place of mourners far\naway, who as yet knew not of the wreck. Many days after this, something\nwhite was seen floating on the water by one who was sauntering on the\nbeach. It was approached in a boat, and found to be the body of a\nwoman, which had risen in an upright position, whose white cap was\nblown back with the wind. I saw that the beauty of the shore itself was\nwrecked for many a lonely walker there, until he could perceive, at\nlast, how its beauty was enhanced by wrecks like this, and it acquired\nthus a rarer and sublimer beauty still.\n\n\n[Illustration: Cohasset, The little cove at Whitehead promontory]\n\nWhy care for these dead bodies? They really have no friends but the\nworms or fishes. Their owners were coming to the New World, as Columbus\nand the Pilgrims did,\u2014they were within a mile of its shores; but,\nbefore they could reach it, they emigrated to a newer world than ever\nColumbus dreamed of, yet one of whose existence we believe that there\nis far more universal and convincing evidence\u2014though it has not yet\nbeen discovered by science\u2014than Columbus had of this; not merely\nmariners\u2019 tales and some paltry drift-wood and sea-weed, but a\ncontinual drift and instinct to all our shores. I saw their empty hulks\nthat came to land; but they themselves, meanwhile, were cast upon some\nshore yet further west, toward which we are all tending, and which we\nshall reach at last, it may be through storm and darkness, as they did.\nNo doubt, we have reason to thank God that they have not been\n\u201cshipwrecked into life again.\u201d The mariner who makes the safest port in\nHeaven, perchance, seems to his friends on earth to be shipwrecked, for\nthey deem Boston Harbor the better place; though perhaps invisible to\nthem, a skillful pilot comes to meet him, and the fairest and balmiest\ngales blow off that coast, his good ship makes the land in halcyon\ndays, and he kisses the shore in rapture there, while his old hulk\ntosses in the surf here. It is hard to part with one\u2019s body, but, no\ndoubt, it is easy enough to do without it when once it is gone. All\ntheir plans and hopes burst like a bubble! Infants by the score dashed\non the rocks by the enraged Atlantic Ocean! No, no! If the _St. John_\ndid not make her port here, she has been telegraphed there. The\nstrongest wind cannot stagger a Spirit; it is a Spirit\u2019s breath. A just\nman\u2019s purpose cannot be split on any Grampus or material rock, but\nitself will split rocks till it succeeds.\n\nThe verses addressed to Columbus, dying, may, with slight alterations,\nbe applied to the passengers of the _St. John:_\u2014\n\n\u201cSoon with them will all be over,\nSoon the voyage will be begun\nThat shall bear them to discover,\nFar away, a land unknown.\n\n\u201cLand that each, alone, must visit,\nBut no tidings bring to men;\nFor no sailor, once departed,\nEver hath returned again.\n\n\u201cNo carved wood, no broken branches,\nEver drift from that far wild;\nHe who on that ocean launches\nMeets no corse of angel child.\n\n\u201cUndismayed, my noble sailors,\nSpread, then spread your canvas out;\nSpirits! on a sea of ether\nSoon shall ye serenely float!\n\n\u201cWhere the deep no plummet soundeth,\nFear no hidden breakers there,\nAnd the fanning wing of angels\nShall your bark right onward bear.\n\n\u201cQuit, now, full of heart and comfort,\nThese rude shores, they are of earth;\nWhere the rosy clouds are parting,\nThere the blessed isles loom forth.\u201d\n\n\nOne summer day, since this, I came this way, on foot, along the shore\nfrom Boston. It was so warm that some horses had climbed to the very\ntop of the ramparts of the old fort at Hull, where there was hardly\nroom to turn round, for the sake of the breeze. The _Datura\nstramonium_, or thorn-apple, was in full bloom along the beach; and, at\nsight of this cosmopolite,\u2014this Captain Cook among plants,\u2014carried in\nballast all over the world, I felt as if I were on the highway of\nnations. Say, rather, this Viking, king of the Bays, for it is not an\ninnocent plant; it suggests not merely commerce, but its attend-ant\nvices, as if its fibres were the stuff of which pirates spin their\nyarns. I heard the voices of men shouting aboard a vessel, half a mile\nfrom the shore, which sounded as if they were in a barn in the country,\nthey being between the sails. It was a purely rural sound. As I looked\nover the water, I saw the isles rapidly wasting away, the sea nibbling\nvoraciously at the continent, the springing arch of a hill suddenly\ninterrupted, as at Point Alderton,\u2014what botanists might call\npremorse,\u2014showing, by its curve against the sky, how much space it must\nhave occupied, where now was water only, On the other hand, these\nwrecks of isles were being fancifully arranged into new shores, as at\nHog Island, inside of Hull, where everything seemed to be gently\nlapsing, into futurity. This isle had got the very form of a\nripple,\u2014and I thought that the inhabitants should bear a ripple for\ndevice on their shields, a wave passing over them, with the _datura_,\nwhich is said to produce mental alienation of long duration without\naffecting the bodily health,[1] springing from its edge. The most\ninteresting thing which I heard of, in this township of Hull, was an\nunfailing spring, whose locality was pointed out to me, on the side of\na distant hill, as I was panting along the shore, though I did not\nvisit it. Perhaps, if I should go through Rome, it would be some spring\non the Capitoline Hill I should remember the longest. It is true, I was\nsomewhat interested in the well at the old French fort, which was said\nto be ninety feet deep, with a cannon at the bottom of it. On Nantasket\nbeach I counted a dozen chaises from the public-house. From time to\ntime the riders turned their horses toward the sea, standing in the\nwater for the coolness,\u2014and I saw the value of beaches to cities for\nthe sea breeze and the bath.\n\nAt Jerusalem village the inhabitants were collecting in haste, before a\nthunder-shower now approaching, the Irish moss which they had spread to\ndry. The shower passed on one side, and gave me a few drops only, which\ndid not cool the air. I merely felt a puff upon my cheek, though,\nwithin sight, a vessel was capsized in the bay, and several others\ndragged their anchors, and were near going ashore. The sea-bathing at\nCohasset Rocks was perfect. The water was purer and more transparent\nthan any I had ever seen. There was not a particle of mud or slime\nabout it. The bottom being sandy, I could see the sea-perch swimming\nabout. The smooth and fantastically worn rocks, and the perfectly clean\nand tress-like rock-weeds falling over you, and attached so firmly to\nthe rocks that you could pull yourself up by them, greatly enhanced the\nluxury of the bath. The stripe of barnacles just above the weeds\nreminded me of some vegetable growth,\u2014the buds, and petals, and\nseed-vessels of flowers. They lay along the seams of the rock like\nbuttons on a waistcoat. It was one of the hottest days in the year, yet\nI found the water so icy cold that I could swim but a stroke or two,\nand thought that, in case of shipwreck, there would be more danger of\nbeing chilled to death than simply drowned. One immersion was enough to\nmake you forget the dog-days utterly. Though you were sweltering\nbefore, it will take you half an hour now to remember that it was ever\nwarm. There were the tawny rocks, like lions couchant, defying the\nocean, whose waves incessantly dashed against and scoured them with\nvast quantities of gravel. The water held in their little hollows, on\nthe receding of the tide, was so crystalline that I could not believe\nit salt, but wished to drink it; and higher up were basins of fresh\nwater left by the rain,\u2014all which, being also of different depths and\ntemperature, were convenient for different kinds of baths. Also, the\nlarger hollows in the smoothed rocks formed the most convenient of\nseats and dressing-rooms. In these respects it was the most perfect\nseashore that I had seen.\n\nI saw in Cohasset, separated from the sea only by a narrow beach, a\nhandsome but shallow lake of some four hundred acres, which, I was\ntold, the sea had tossed over the beach in a great storm in the spring,\nand, after the alewives had passed into it, it had stopped up its\noutlet, and now the alewives were dying: by thousands, and the\ninhabitants were apprehending a pestilence as the water evaporated. It\nhad live rocky islets in it.\n\nThis Rock shore is called Pleasant Cove, on some maps; on the map of\nCohasset, that name appears to be confined to the particular cove where\nI saw the wreck of the St. John. The ocean did not look, now, as if\nany were ever shipwrecked in it; it was not grand and sublime, but\nbeautiful as a lake. Not a vestige of a wreck was visible, nor could I\nbelieve that the bones of many a shipwrecked man were buried in that\npure sand. But to go on with our first excursion.\n\n [1] The Jamestown weed (or thorn-apple). \u201cThis, being an early plant,\n was gathered very young for a boiled salad, by some of the soldiers\n sent thither [_i.e._ to Virginia] to quell the rebellion of Bacon; and\n some of them ate plentifully of it, the effect of which was a very\n pleasant comedy, for they turned natural fools upon it for several\n days: one would blow up a feather in the air; another would dart\n straws at it with much fury; and another, stark naked, was sitting up\n in a corner like a monkey, grinning and making mows at them; a fourth\n would fondly kiss and paw his companions, and sneer in their faces,\n with a countenance more antic than any in a Dutch droll. In this\n frantic condition they were confined, lest they should, in their\n folly, destroy themselves,\u2014though it was observed that all their\n actions were full of innocence and good nature. Indeed, they were not\n very cleanly. A thousand such simple tricks they played, and after\n eleven days returned to themselves again, not remembering anything\n that had passed.\u201d\u2014Beverly\u2019s _History of Virginia_, p. 120.\n \n\n\n\nII\nSTAGE COACH VIEWS\n\n\nAfter spending the night in Bridgewater, and picking up a few\narrow-heads there in the morning, we took the cars for Sandwich, where\nwe arrived before noon. This was the terminus of the \u201cCape Cod\nRailroad,\u201d though it is but the beginning of the Cape. As it rained\nhard, with driving mists, and there was no sign of its holding up, we\nhere took that almost obsolete conveyance, the stage, for \u201cas far as it\nwent that day,\u201d as we told the driver. We had forgotten how far a\nstage could go in a day, but we were told that the Cape roads were very\n\u201cheavy,\u201d though they added that, being of sand, the rain would improve\nthem. This coach was an exceedingly narrow one, but as there was a\nslight spherical excess over two on a seat, the driver waited till nine\npassengers had got in, without taking the measure of any of them, and\nthen shut the door after two or three ineffectual slams, as if the\nfault were all in the hinges or the latch,\u2014while we timed our\ninspirations and expirations so as to assist him.\n\nWe were now fairly on the Cape, which extends from Sandwich eastward\nthirty-five miles, and thence north and northwest thirty more, in all\nsixty-five, and has an average breadth of about five miles. In the\ninterior it rises to the height of two hundred, and sometimes perhaps\nthree hundred feet above the level of the sea. According to Hitchcock,\nthe geologist of the State, it is composed almost entirely of sand,\neven to the depth of three hundred feet in some places, though there is\nprobably a concealed core of rock a little beneath the surface, and it\nis of diluvian origin, excepting a small portion at the extremity and\nelsewhere along the shores, which is alluvial. For the first half of\nthe Cape large blocks of stone are found, here and there, mixed with\nthe sand, but for the last thirty miles boulders, or even gravel, are\nrarely met with. Hitchcock conjectures that the ocean has, in course of\ntime, eaten out Boston Harbor and other bays in the mainland, and that\nthe minute fragments have been deposited by the currents at a distance\nfrom the shore, and formed this sand-bank. Above the sand, if the\nsurface is subjected to agricultural tests, there is found to be a thin\nlayer of soil gradually diminishing from Barnstable to Truro, where it\nceases; but there are many holes and rents in this weather-beaten\ngarment not likely to be stitched in time, which reveal the naked flesh\nof the Cape, and its extremity is completely bare.\n\nI at once got out my book, the eighth volume of the Collections of the\nMassachusetts Historical Society, printed in 1802, which contains some\nshort notices of the Cape towns, and began to read up to where I was,\nfor in the cars I could not read as fast as I travelled. To those who\ncame from the side of Plymouth, it said: \u201cAfter riding through a body\nof woods, twelve miles in extent, interspersed with but few houses, the\nsettlement of Sandwich appears, with a more agreeable effect, to the\neye of the traveller.\u201d Another writer speaks of this as a _beautiful_\nvillage. But I think that our villages will bear to be contrasted only\nwith one another, not with Nature. I have no great respect for the\nwriter\u2019s taste, who talks easily about beautiful villages, embellished,\nperchance, with a \u201cfulling-mill,\u201d \u201ca handsome academy,\u201d or\nmeeting-house, and \u201ca number of shops for the different mechanic arts\u201d;\nwhere the green and white houses of the gentry, drawn up in rows, front\non a street of which it would be difficult to tell whether it is most\nlike a desert or a long stable-yard. Such spots can be beautiful only\nto the weary traveller, or the returning native,\u2014or, perchance, the\nrepentant misanthrope; not to him who, with unprejudiced senses, has\njust come out of the woods, and approaches one of them, by a bare road,\nthrough a succession of straggling homesteads where he cannot tell\nwhich is the alms-house. However, as for Sandwich, I cannot speak\nparticularly. Ours was but half a Sandwich at most, and that must have\nfallen on the buttered side some time. I only saw that it was a closely\nbuilt town for a small one, with glass-works to improve its sand, and\nnarrow streets in which we turned round and round till we could not\ntell which way we were going, and the rain came in, first on this side,\nand then on that, and I saw that they in the houses were more\ncomfortable than we in the coach. My book also said of this town, \u201cThe\ninhabitants, in general, are substantial livers.\u201d\u2014that is. I suppose,\nthey do not live like philosophers: but, as the stage did not stop long\nenough for us to dine, we had no opportunity to test the truth of this\nstatement. It may have referred, however, to the quantity \u201cof oil they\nwould yield.\u201d It further said, \u201cThe inhabitants of Sandwich generally\nmanifest a fond and steady adherence to the manners, employments, and\nmodes of living which characterized their fathers\u201d; which made me think\nthat they were, after all, very much like all the rest of the\nworld;\u2014and it added that this was \u201ca resemblance, which, at this day,\nwill constitute no impeachment of either their virtue or taste\u201d: which\nremark proves to me that the writer was one with the rest of them. No\npeople ever lived by cursing their fathers, however great a curse their\nfathers might have been to them. But it must be confessed that ours was\nold authority, and probably they have changed all that now.\n\n\n[Illustration: An old windmill]\n\nOur route was along the Bay side, through Barnstable, Yarmouth, Dennis,\nand Brewster, to Orleans, with a range of low hills on our right,\nrunning down the Cape. The weather was not favorable for wayside views,\nbut we made the most of such glimpses of land and water as we could get\nthrough the rain. The country was, for the most part, bare, or with\nonly a little scrubby wood left on the hills. We noticed in\nYarmouth\u2014and, if I do not mistake, in Dennis\u2014large tracts where\npitch-pines were planted four or five years before. They were in rows,\nas they appeared when we were abreast of them, and, excepting that\nthere were extensive vacant spaces, seemed to be doing remarkably well.\nThis, we were told, was the only use to which such tracts could be\nprofitably put. Every higher eminence had a pole set up on it, with an\nold storm-coat or sail tied to it, for a signal, that those on the\nsouth side of the Cape, for instance, might know when the Boston\npackets had arrived on the north. It appeared as if this use must\nabsorb the greater part of the old clothes of the Cape, leaving but few\nrags for the pedlers. The wind-mills on the hills,\u2014large\nweather-stained octagonal structures,\u2014and the salt-works scattered all\nalong the shore, with their long rows of vats resting on piles driven\ninto the marsh, their low, turtle-like roofs, and their slighter\nwind-mills, were novel and interesting objects to an inlander. The sand\nby the road-side was partially covered with bunches of a moss-like\nplant, _Hudsonia tomentosa_, which a woman in the stage told us was\ncalled \u201cpoverty-grass,\u201d because it grew where nothing else would.\n\nI was struck by the pleasant equality which reigned among the stage\ncompany, and their broad and invulnerable good-humor. They were what is\ncalled free and easy, and met one another to advantage, as men who had\nat length learned how to live. They appeared to know each other when\nthey were strangers, they were so simple and downright. They were well\nmet, in an unusual sense, that is, they met as well as they could meet,\nand did not seem to be troubled with any impediment. They were not\nafraid nor ashamed of one another, but were contented to make just such\na company as the ingredients allowed. It was evident that the same\nfoolish respect was not here claimed for mere wealth and station that\nis in many parts of New England; yet some of them were the \u201cfirst\npeople,\u201d as they are called, of the various towns through which we\npassed. Retired sea-captains, in easy circumstances, who talked of\nfarming as sea-captains are wont; an erect, respectable, and\ntrustworthy-looking man, in his wrapper, some of the salt of the earth,\nwho had formerly been the salt of the sea; or a more courtly gentleman,\nwho, perchance, had been a representative to the General Court in his\nday; or a broad, red-faced Cape Cod man, who had seen too many storms\nto be easily irritated; or a fisherman\u2019s wife, who had been waiting a\nweek for a coaster to leave Boston, and had at length come by the cars.\n\nA strict regard for truth obliges us to say that the few women whom we\nsaw that day looked exceedingly pinched up. They had prominent chins\nand noses, having lost all their teeth, and a sharp _W_ would represent\ntheir profile. They were not so well preserved as their husbands; or\nperchance they were well preserved as dried specimens. (Their husbands,\nhowever, were pickled.) But we respect them not the less for all that;\nour own dental system is far from perfect.\n\nStill we kept on in the rain, or, if we stopped, it was commonly at a\npost-office, and we thought that writing letters, and sorting them\nagainst our arrival, must be the principal employment of the\ninhabitants of the Cape this rainy day. The post-office appeared a\nsingularly domestic institution here. Ever and anon the stage stopped\nbefore some low shop or dwelling, and a wheelwright or shoemaker\nappeared in his shirt sleeves and leather apron, with spectacles newly\ndonned, holding up Uncle Sam\u2019s bag, as if it were a slice of home-made\ncake, for the travellers, while he retailed some piece of gossip to the\ndriver, really as indifferent to the presence of the former as if they\nwere so much baggage. In one instance we understood that a woman was\nthe postmistress, and they said that she made the best one on the road;\nbut we suspected that the letters must be subjected to a very close\nscrutiny there. While we were stopping for this purpose at Dennis, we\nventured to put our heads out of the windows, to see where we were\ngoing, and saw rising before us, through the mist, singular barren\nhills, all stricken with poverty-grass, looming up as if they were in\nthe horizon, though they were close to us, and we seemed to have got to\nthe end of the land on that side, notwithstanding that the horses were\nstill headed that way. Indeed, that part of Dennis which we saw was an\nexceedingly barren and desolate country, of a character which I can\nfind no name for; such a surface, perhaps, as the bottom of the sea\nmade dry land day before yesterday. It was covered with poverty-grass,\nand there was hardly a tree in sight, but here and there a little\nweather-stained, one-storied house, with a red roof,\u2014for often the roof\nwas painted, though the rest of the house was not,\u2014standing bleak and\ncheerless, yet with a broad foundation to the land, where the comfort\nmust have been all inside. Yet we read in the Gazetteer\u2014for we carried\nthat too with us\u2014that, in 1837, one hundred and fifty masters of\nvessels, belonging to this town, sailed from the various ports of the\nUnion. There must be many more houses in the south part of the town,\nelse we cannot imagine where they all lodge when they are at home, if\never they are there; but the truth is, their houses are floating ones,\nand their home is on the ocean. There were almost no trees at all in\nthis part of Dennis, nor could I learn that they talked of setting out\nany. It is true, there was a meeting-house, set round with Lombardy\npoplars, in a hollow square, the rows fully as straight as the studs of\na building, and the corners as square; but, if I do not mistake, every\none of them was dead. I could not help thinking that they needed a\nrevival here. Our book said that, in 1795, there was erected in Dennis\n\u201can elegant meeting-house, with a steeple.\u201d Perhaps this was the one;\nthough whether it had a steeple, or had died down so far from sympathy\nwith the poplars, I do not remember. Another meeting-house in this town\nwas described as a \u201cneat building\u201d; but of the meeting-house in\nChatham, a neighboring town, for there was then but one, nothing is\nsaid, except that it \u201cis in good repair,\u201d\u2014both which remarks, I trust,\nmay be understood as applying to the churches spiritual as well as\nmaterial. However, \u201celegant meeting-houses,\u201d from that Trinity one on\nBroadway, to this at Nobscusset, in my estimation, belong to the same\ncategory with \u201cbeautiful villages.\u201d I was never in season to see one.\nHandsome is that handsome does. What they did for shade here, in warm\nweather, we did not know, though we read that \u201cfogs are more frequent\nin Chatham than in any other part of the country; and they serve in\nsummer, instead of trees, to shelter the houses against the heat of the\nsun. To those who delight in extensive vision,\u201d\u2014is it to be inferred\nthat the inhabitants of Chatham do not?\u2014\u201cthey are unpleasant, but they\nare not found to be unhealthful.\u201d Probably, also, the unobstructed\nsea-breeze answers the purpose of a fan. The historian of Chatham says\nfurther, that \u201cin many families there is no difference between the\nbreakfast and supper; cheese, cakes, and pies being as common at the\none as at the other.\u201d But that leaves us still uncertain whether they\nwere really common at either.\n\n[Illustration: A street in Sandwich]\n\nThe road, which was quite hilly, here ran near the Bay-shore, having\nthe Bay on one side, and \u201cthe rough hill of Scargo,\u201d said to be the\nhighest land on the Cape, on the other. Of the wide prospect of the Bay\nafforded by the summit of this hill, our guide says: \u201cThe view has not\nmuch of the beautiful in it, but it communicates a strong emotion of\nthe sublime.\u201d That is the kind of communication which we love to have\nmade to us. We passed through the village of Suet, in Dennis, on Suet\nand Quivet Necks, of which it is said, \u201cwhen compared with\nNobscusset,\u201d\u2014we had a misty recollection of having passed through, or\nnear to, the latter,\u2014\u201cit may be denominated a pleasant village; but, in\ncomparison with the village of Sandwich, there is little or no beauty\nin it.\u201d However, we liked Dennis well, better than any town we had seen\non the Cape, it was so novel, and, in that stormy day, so sublimely\ndreary.\n\nCaptain John Sears, of Suet, was the first person in this country who\nobtained pure marine salt by solar evaporation alone; though it had\nlong been made in a similar way on the coast of France, and elsewhere.\nThis was in the year 1776, at which time, on account of the war, salt\nwas scarce and dear. The Historical Collections contain an interesting\naccount of his experiments, which we read when we first saw the roofs\nof the salt-works. Barnstable county is the most favorable locality for\nthese works on our northern coast,\u2014there is so little fresh water here\nemptying into ocean. Quite recently there were about two millions of\ndollars invested in this business here. But now the Cape is unable to\ncompete with the importers of salt and the manufacturers of it at the\nWest, and, accordingly, her salt-works are fast going to decay. From\nmaking salt, they turn to fishing more than ever. The Gazetteer will\nuniformly tell you, under the head of each town, how many go a-fishing,\nand the value of the fish and oil taken, how much salt is made and\nused, how many are engaged in the coasting trade, how many in\nmanufacturing palm-leaf hats, leather, boots, shoes, and tinware, and\nthen it has done, and leaves you to imagine the more truly domestic\nmanufactures which are nearly the same all the world over.\n\nLate in the afternoon, we rode through Brewster, so named after Elder\nBrewster, for fear he would be forgotten else. Who has not heard of\nElder Brewster? Who knows who he was? This appeared to be the\nmodern-built town of the Cape, the favorite residence of retired\nsea-captains. It is said that \u201cthere are more masters and mates of\nvessels which sail on foreign voyages belonging to this place than to\nany other town in the country.\u201d There were many of the modern American\nhouses here, such as they turn out at Cambridgeport, standing on the\nsand; you could almost swear that they had been floated down Charles\nRiver, and drifted across the Bay. I call them American, because they\nare paid for by Americans, and \u201cput up\u201d by American carpenters; but\nthey are little removed from lumber; only Eastern stuff disguised with\nwhite paint, the least interesting kind of drift-wood to me. Perhaps we\nhave reason to be proud of our naval architecture, and need not go to\nthe Greeks, or the Goths, or the Italians, for the models of our\nvessels. Sea-captains do not employ a Cambridgeport carpenter to build\ntheir floating houses, and for their houses on shore, if they must copy\nany, it would be more agreeable to the imagination to see one of their\nvessels turned bottom upward, in the Numidian fashion. We read that,\n\u201cat certain seasons, the reflection of the sun upon the windows of the\nhouses in Wellfleet and Truro (across the inner side of the elbow of\nthe Cape) is discernible with the naked eye, at a distance of eighteen\nmiles and upward, on the county road.\u201d This we were pleased to imagine,\nas we had not seen the sun for twenty-four hours.\n\n[Illustration: The old Higgins tavern at Orleans]\n\nThe same author (the Rev. John Simpkins) said of the inhabitants, a\ngood while ago: \u201cNo persons appear to have a greater relish for the\nsocial circle and domestic pleasures. They are not in the habit of\nfrequenting taverns, unless on public occasions. I know not of a proper\nidler or tavern-haunter in the place.\u201d This is more than can be said of\nmy townsmen.\n\nAt length we stopped for the night at Higgins\u2019s tavern, in Orleans,\nfeeling very much as if we were on a sand-bar in the ocean, and not\nknowing whether we should see land or water ahead when the mist cleared\naway. We here overtook two Italian boys, who had waded thus far down\nthe Cape through the sand, with their organs on their backs, and were\ngoing on to Provincetown. What a hard lot, we thought, if the\nProvincetown people should shut their doors against them! Whose yard\nwould they go to next? Yet we concluded that they had chosen wisely to\ncome here, where other music than that of the surf must be rare. Thus\nthe great civilizer sends out its emissaries, sooner or later, to every\nsandy cape and light-house of the New World which the census-taker\nvisits, and summons the savage there to surrender.\n\n\n\n\nIII\nTHE PLAINS OF NAUSET\n\n\nThe next morning, Thursday, October 11th, it rained, as hard as ever;\nbut we were determined to proceed on foot, nevertheless. We first made\nsome inquiries with regard to the practicability of walking up the\nshore on the Atlantic side to Provincetown, whether we should meet with\nany creeks or marshes to trouble us. Higgins said that there was no\nobstruction, and that it was not much farther than by the road, but he\nthought that we should find it very \u201cheavy\u201d walking in the sand; it was\nbad enough in the road, a horse would sink in up to the fetlocks there.\nBut there was one man at the tavern who had walked it, and he said that\nwe could go very well, though it was sometimes inconvenient and even\ndangerous walking under the bank, when there was a great tide, with an\neasterly wind, which caused the sand to cave. For the first four or\nfive miles we followed the road, which here turns to the north on the\nelbow, \u2014the narrowest part of the Cape,\u2014that we might clear an inlet\nfrom the ocean, a part of Nauset Harbor, in Orleans, on our right. We\nfound the travelling good enough for walkers on the sides of the roads,\nthough it was \u201cheavy\u201d for horses in the middle. We walked with our\numbrellas behind us, since it blowed hard as well as rained, with\ndriving mists, as the day before, and the wind helped us over the sand\nat a rapid rate. Everything indicated that we had reached a strange\nshore. The road was a mere lane, winding over bare swells of bleak and\nbarren-looking land. The houses were few and far between, besides being\nsmall and rusty, though they appeared to be kept in good repair, and\ntheir dooryards, which were the unfenced Cape, were tidy; or, rather,\nthey looked as if the ground around them was blown clean by the wind.\nPerhaps the scarcity of wood here, and the consequent absence of the\nwood-pile and other wooden traps, had something to do with this\nappearance. They seemed, like mariners ashore, to have sat right down\nto enjoy the firmness of the land, without studying their postures or\nhabiliments. To them it was merely _terra firma_ and _cognita_, not yet\n_fertilis_ and _jucunda_. Every landscape which is dreary enough has a\ncertain beauty to my eyes, and in this instance its permanent qualities\nwere enhanced by the weather. Everything told of the sea, even when we\ndid not see its waste or hear its roar. For birds there were gulls, and\nfor carts in the fields, boats turned bottom upward against the houses,\nand sometimes the rib of a whale was woven into the fence by the\nroad-side. The trees were, if possible, rarer than the houses,\nexcepting apple-trees, of which there were a few small orchards in the\nhollows. These were either narrow and high, with flat tops, having lost\ntheir side branches, like huge plum-bushes growing in exposed\nsituations, or else dwarfed and branching immediately at the ground,\nlike quince-bushes. They suggested that, under like circumstances, all\ntrees would at last acquire like habits of growth. I afterward saw on\nthe Cape many full-grown apple-trees not higher than a man\u2019s head; one\nwhole orchard, indeed, where all the fruit could have been gathered by\na man standing on the ground; but you could hardly creep beneath the\ntrees. Some, which the owners told me were twenty years old, were only\nthree and a half feet high, spreading at six inches from the ground\nfive feet each way, and being withal surrounded with boxes of tar to\ncatch the cankerworms, they looked like plants in flower-pots, and as\nif they might be taken into the house in the winter. In another place,\nI saw some not much larger than currant-bushes; yet the owner told me\nthat they had borne a barrel and a half of apples that fall. If they\nhad been placed close together, I could have cleared them all at a\njump. I measured some near the Highland Light in Truro, which had been\ntaken from the shrubby woods thereabouts when young, and grafted. One,\nwhich had been set ten years, was on an average eighteen inches high,\nand spread nine feet with a flat top. It had borne one bushel of apples\ntwo years before. Another, probably twenty years old from the seed, was\nfive feet high, and spread eighteen feet, branching, as usual, at the\nground, so that you could not creep under it. This bore a barrel of\napples two years before. The owner of these trees invariably used the\npersonal pronoun in speaking of them; as, \u201cI got _him_ out of the\nwoods, but _he_ doesn\u2019t bear.\u201d The largest that I saw in that\nneighborhood was nine feet high to the topmost leaf, and spread\nthirty-three feet, branching at the ground five ways.\n\n[Illustration: A Nauset lane]\n\nIn one yard I observed a single, very healthy-looking tree, while all\nthe rest were dead or dying. The occupant said that his father had\nmanured all but that one with blackfish.\n\nThis habit of growth should, no doubt, be encouraged; and they should\nnot be trimmed up, as some travelling practitioners have advised. In\n1802 there was not a single fruit-tree in Chatham, the next town to\nOrleans, on the south; and the old account of Orleans says:\n\u201cFruit-trees cannot be made to grow within a mile of the ocean. Even\nthose which are placed at a greater distance are injured by the east\nwinds; and, after violent storms in the spring, a saltish taste is\nperceptible on their bark.\u201d We noticed that they were often covered\nwith a yellow lichen-like rust, the _Parmelia parietina_.\n\nThe most foreign and picturesque structures on the Cape, to an\ninlander, not excepting the salt-works, are the\nwind-mills,\u2014gray-looking octagonal towers, with long timbers slanting\nto the ground in the rear, and there resting on a cart-wheel, by which\ntheir fans are turned round to face the wind. These appeared also to\nserve in some measure for props against its force. A great circular rut\nwas worn around the building by the wheel. The neighbors who assemble\nto turn the mill to the wind are likely to know which way it blows,\nwithout a weathercock. They looked loose and slightly locomotive, like\nhuge wounded birds, trailing a wing or a leg, and re-minded one of\npictures of the Netherlands. Being on elevated ground, and high in\nthemselves, they serve as landmarks,\u2014for there are no tall trees, or\nother objects commonly, which can be seen at a distance in the horizon;\nthough the outline of the land itself is so firm and distinct that an\ninsignificant cone, or even precipice of sand, is visible at a great\ndistance from over the sea. Sailors making the land commonly steer\neither by the wind-mills or the meeting-houses. In the country, we are\nobliged to steer by the meeting-houses alone. Yet the meeting-house is\na kind of wind-mill, which runs one day in seven, turned either by the\nwinds of doctrine or public opinion, or more rarely by the winds of\nHeaven, where another sort of grist is ground, of which, if it be not\nall bran or musty, if it be not _plaster_, we trust to make bread of\nlife.\n\nThere were, here and there, heaps of shells in the fields, where clams\nhad been opened for bait; for Orleans is famous for its shell-fish,\nespecially clams, or, as our author says, \u201cto speak more properly,\nworms.\u201d The shores are more fertile than the dry land. The inhabitants\nmeasure their crops, not only by bushels of corn, but by barrels of\nclams. A thousand barrels of clam-bait are counted as equal in value to\nsix or eight thousand bushels of Indian corn, and once they were\nprocured without more labor or expense, and the supply was thought to\nbe inexhaustible. \u201cFor,\u201d runs the history, \u201cafter a portion of the\nshore has been dug over, and almost all the clams taken up, at the end\nof two years, it is said, they are as plenty there as ever. It is even\naffirmed by many persons, that it is as necessary to stir the clam\nground frequently as it is to hoe a field of potatoes; because, if this\nlabor is omitted, the clams will be crowded too closely together, and\nwill be prevented from increasing in size.\u201d But we were told that the\nsmall clam, _Mya arenaria_, was not so plenty here as formerly.\nProbably the clam ground has been stirred too frequently, after all.\nNevertheless, one man, who complained that they fed pigs with them and\nso made them scarce, told me that he dug and opened one hundred and\ntwenty-six dollars\u2019 worth in one winter, in Truro.\n\n[Illustration: Nauset Bay]\n\nWe crossed a brook, not more than fourteen rods long, between Orleans\nand Eastham, called Jeremiah\u2019s Gutter. The Atlantic is said sometimes\nto meet the Bay here, and isolate the northern part of the Cape. The\nstreams of the Cape are necessarily formed on a minute scale, since\nthere is no room for them to run, without tumbling immediately into the\nsea; and beside, we found it difficult to run ourselves in that sand,\nwhen there was no want of room. Hence, the least channel where water\nruns, or may run, is important, and is dignified with a name. We read\nthat there is no running water in Chatham, which is the next town. The\nbarren aspect of the land would hardly be believed if described. It was\nsuch soil, or rather land, as, to judge from appearances, no farmer in\nthe interior would think of cultivating, or even fencing. Generally,\nthe ploughed fields of the Cape look white and yellow, like a mixture\nof salt and Indian meal. This is called soil. All an inlander\u2019s notions\nof soil and fertility will be confounded by a visit to these parts, and\nhe will not be able, for some time afterward, to distinguish soil from\nsand. The historian of Chatham says of a part of that town, which has\nbeen gained from the sea: \u201cThere is a doubtful appearance of a soil\nbeginning to be formed. It is styled _doubtful_, because it would not\nbe observed by every eye, and perhaps not acknowledged by many.\u201d We\nthought that this would not be a bad description of the greater part of\nthe Cape. There is a \u201cbeach\u201d on the west side of Eastham, which we\ncrossed the next summer, half a mile wide, and stretching across the\ntownship, containing seventeen hundred acres, on which there is not now\na particle of vegetable mould, though it formerly produced wheat. All\nsands are here called \u201cbeaches,\u201d whether they are waves of water or of\nair that dash against them, since they commonly have their origin on\nthe shore. \u201cThe sand in some places,\u201d says the historian of Eastham,\n\u201clodging against the beach-grass, has been raised into hills fifty feet\nhigh, where twenty-five years ago no hills existed. In others it has\nfilled up small valleys, and swamps. Where a strong-rooted bush stood,\nthe appearance is singular: a mass of earth and sand adheres to it,\nresembling a small tower. In several places, rocks, which were formerly\ncovered with soil, are disclosed, and being lashed by the sand, driven\nagainst them by the wind, look as if they were recently dug from a\nquarry.\u201d\n\nWe were surprised to hear of the great crops of corn which are still\nraised in Eastham, notwithstanding the real and apparent barrenness.\nOur landlord in Orleans had told us that he raised three or four\nhundred bushels of corn annually, and also of the great number of pigs\nwhich he fattened. In Champlain\u2019s \u201cVoyages,\u201d there is a plate\nrepresenting the Indian cornfields hereabouts, with their wigwams in\nthe midst, as they appeared in 1605, and it was here that the Pilgrims,\nto quote their own words, \u201cbought eight or ten hogsheads of corn and\nbeans\u201d of the Nauset Indians, in 1622, to keep themselves from\nstarving.[1]\n\n\u201cIn 1667 the town [of Eastham] voted that every housekeeper should kill\ntwelve blackbirds or three crows, which did great damage to the corn;\nand this vote was repeated for many years.\u201d In 1695 an additional order\nwas passed, namely, that \u201cevery unmarried man in the township shall\nkill six blackbirds, or three crows, while he remains single; as a\npenalty for not doing it, shall not be married until he obey this\norder.\u201d The blackbirds, however, still molest the corn. I saw them at\nit the next summer, and there were many scarecrows, if not\nscare-blackbirds, in the fields, which I often mistook for men.\n\n[Illustration: A scarecrow]\n\nFrom which I concluded that either many men were not married, or many\nblackbirds were. Yet they put but three or four kernels in a hill, and\nlet fewer plants remain than we do. In the account of Eastham, in the\n\u201cHistorical Collections,\u201d printed in 1802, it is said, that \u201cmore corn\nis produced than the inhabitants consume, and about a thousand bushels\nare annually sent to market. The soil being free from stones, a plough\npasses through it speedily; and after the corn has come up, a small\nCape horse, somewhat larger than a goat, will, with the assistance of\ntwo boys, easily hoe three or four acres in a day; several farmers are\naccustomed to produce five hundred bushels of grain annually, and not\nlong since one raised eight hundred bushels on sixty acres.\u201d Similar\naccounts are given to-day; indeed, the recent accounts are in some\ninstances suspectable repetitions of the old, and I have no doubt that\ntheir statements are as often founded on the exception as the rule, and\nthat by far the greater number of acres are as barren as they appear to\nbe. It is sufficiently remarkable that any crops can be raised here,\nand it may be owing, as others have suggested, to the amount of\nmoisture in the atmosphere, the warmth of the sand, and the rareness of\nfrosts. A miller, who was sharpening his stones, told me that, forty\nyears ago, he had been to a husking here, where five hundred bushels\nwere husked in one evening, and the corn was piled six feet high or\nmore, in the midst, but now, fifteen or eighteen bushels to an acre\nwere an average yield. I never saw fields of such puny and unpromising\nlooking corn as in this town. Probably the inhabitants are contented\nwith small crops from a great surface easily cultivated. It is not\nalways the most fertile land that is the most profitable, and this sand\nmay repay cultivation, as well as the fertile bottoms of the West. It\nis said, moreover, that the vegetables raised in the sand, without\nmanure, are remarkably sweet, the pumpkins especially, though when\ntheir seed is planted in the interior they soon degenerate. I can\ntestify that the vegetables here, when they succeed at all, look\nremarkably green and healthy, though perhaps it is partly by contrast\nwith the sand. Yet the inhabitants of the Cape towns, generally, do not\nraise their own meal or pork. Their gardens are commonly little\npatches, that have been redeemed from the edges of the marshes and\nswamps.\n\nAll the morning we had heard the sea roar on the eastern shore, which\nwas several miles distant; for it still felt the effects of the storm\nin which the _St. John_ was wrecked,\u2014though a school-boy, whom we\novertook, hardly knew what we meant, his ears were so used to it. He\nwould have more plainly heard the same sound in a shell. It was a very\ninspiriting sound to walk by, filling the whole air, that of the sea\ndashing against the land, heard several miles inland. Instead of having\na dog to growl before your door, to have an Atlantic Ocean to growl for\na whole Cape! On the whole, we were glad of the storm, which would show\nus the ocean in its angriest mood. Charles Darwin was assured that the\nroar of the surf on the coast of Chiloe, after a heavy gale, could be\nheard at night a distance of \u201c21 sea miles across a hilly and wooded\ncountry.\u201d We conversed with the boy we have mentioned, who might have\nbeen eight years old, making him walk the while under the lee of our\numbrella; for we thought it as important to know what was life on the\nCape to a boy as to a man. We learned from him where the best grapes\nwere to be found in that neighborhood. He was carrying his dinner in a\npail; and, without any impertinent questions being put by us, it did at\nlength appear of what it consisted. The homeliest facts are always the\nmost acceptable to an inquiring mind. At length, before we got to\nEastham meeting-house, we left the road and struck across the country\nfor the eastern shore at Nauset Lights,\u2014three lights close together,\ntwo or three miles distant from us. They were so many that they might\nbe distinguished from others; but this seemed a shiftless and costly\nway of accomplishing that object. We found ourselves at once on an\napparently boundless plain, without a tree or a fence, or, with one or\ntwo exceptions, a house in sight. Instead of fences, the earth was\nsometimes thrown up into a slight ridge. My companion compared it to\nthe rolling prairies of Illinois. In the storm of wind and rain which\nraged when we traversed it, it no doubt appeared more vast and desolate\nthan it really is. As there were no hills, but only here and there a\ndry hollow in the midst of the waste, and the distant horizon was\nconcealed by mist, we did not know whether it was high or low. A\nsolitary traveller whom we saw perambulating in the distance loomed\nlike a giant. He appeared to walk slouchingly, as if held up from above\nby straps under his shoulders, as much as supported by the plain below.\nMen and boys would have appeared alike at a little distance, there\nbeing no object by which to measure them. Indeed, to an inlander, the\nCape landscape is a constant mirage. This kind of country extended a\nmile or two each way. These were the \u201cPlains of Nauset,\u201d once covered\nwith wood, where in winter the winds howl and the snow blows right\nmerrily in the face of the traveller. I was glad to have got out of the\ntowns, where I am wont to feel unspeakably mean and disgraced,\u2014to have\nleft behind me for a season the bar-rooms of Massachusetts, where the\nfull-grown are not weaned from savage and filthy habits,\u2014still sucking\na cigar. My spirits rose in proportion to the outward dreariness. The\ntowns need to be ventilated. The gods would be pleased to see some pure\nflames from their altars. They are not to be appeased with cigar-smoke.\n\nAs we thus skirted the back-side of the towns, for we did not enter any\nvillage, till we got to Provincetown, we read their histories under our\numbrellas, rarely meeting anybody. The old accounts are the richest in\ntopography, which was what we wanted most; and, indeed, in most things\nelse, for I find that the readable parts of the modern accounts of\nthese towns consist, in a great measure, of quotations, acknowledged\nand unacknowledged, from the older ones, without any additional\ninformation of equal interest;\u2014town histories, which at length run into\na history of the Church of that place, that being the only story they\nhave to tell, and conclude by quoting the Latin epitaphs of the old\npastors, having been written in the good old days of Latin and of\nGreek. They will go back to the ordination of every minister and tell\nyou faithfully who made the introductory prayer, and who delivered the\nsermon; who made the ordaining prayer, and who gave the charge; who\nextended the right hand of fellowship, and who pronounced the\nbenediction; also how many ecclesiastical councils convened from time\nto time to inquire into the orthodoxy of some minister, and the names\nof all who composed them. As it will take us an hour to get over this\nplain, and there is no variety in the prospect, peculiar as it is, I\nwill read a little in the history of Eastham the while.\n\nWhen the committee from Plymouth had purchased the territory of Eastham\nof the Indians, \u201cit was demanded, who laid claim to Billingsgate?\u201d\nwhich was understood to be all that part of the Cape north of what they\nhad purchased. \u201cThe answer was, there was not any who owned it. \u2018Then,\u2019\nsaid the committee, \u2018that land is ours.\u2019 The Indians answered, that it\nwas.\u201d This was a remarkable assertion and admission. The Pilgrims\nappear to have regarded themselves as Not Any\u2019s representatives.\nPerhaps this was the first instance of that quiet way of \u201cspeaking for\u201d\na place not yet occupied, or at least not improved as much as it may\nbe, which their descendants have practised, and are still practising so\nextensively. Not Any seems to have been the sole proprietor of all\nAmerica before the Yankees. But history says that, when the Pilgrims\nhad held the lands of Billingsgate many years, at length \u201cappeared an\nIndian, who styled himself Lieutenant Anthony,\u201d who laid claim to them,\nand of him they bought them. Who knows but a Lieutenant Anthony may be\nknocking at the door of the White House some day? At any rate, I know\nthat if you hold a thing unjustly, there will surely be the devil to\npay at last.\n\nThomas Prince, who was several times the governor of the Plymouth\ncolony, was the leader of the settlement of Eastham. There was recently\nstanding, on what was once his farm, in this town, a pear-tree which is\nsaid to have been brought from England, and planted there by him, about\ntwo hundred years ago. It was blown down a few months before we were\nthere. A late account says that it was recently in a vigorous state;\nthe fruit small, but excellent; and it yielded on an average fifteen\nbushels. Some appropriate lines have been addressed to it, by a Mr.\nHeman Doane, from which I will quote, partly because they are the only\nspecimen of Cape Cod verse which I remember to have seen, and partly\nbecause they are not bad.\n\n\u201cTwo hundred years have, on the wings of Time,\n    Passed with their joys and woes, since thou, Old Tree!\nPut forth thy first leaves in this foreign clime.\n    Transplanted from the soil beyond the sea.\u201d\n\n\n*    *    *    *    *\n\n\n[These stars represent the more clerical lines, and also those which\nhave deceased.]\n\n\u201cThat exiled band long since have passed away,\n    And still, Old Tree I thou standest in the place\nWhere Prince\u2019s hand did plant thee in his day,\u2014\n    An undesigned memorial of his race\nAnd time; of those our honored fathers,\n    when They came from Plymouth o\u2019er and settled here;\nDoane, Higgins, Snow, and other worthy men.\n    Whose names their sons remember to revere.\n\n\n*    *    *    *    *\n\n\n\u201cOld Time has thinned thy boughs. Old Pilgrim Tree!\n    And bowed thee with the weight of many years;\nYet \u2019mid the frosts of age, thy bloom we see,\n    And yearly still thy mellow fruit appears.\u201d\n\n\nThere are some other lines which I might quote, if they were not tied\nto unworthy companions by the rhyme. When one ox will lie down, the\nyoke bears hard on him that stands up.\n\nOne of the first settlers of Eastham was Deacon John Doane, who died in\n1707, aged one hundred and ten. Tradition says that he was rocked in a\ncradle several of his last years. That, certainly, was not an Achillean\nlife. His mother must have let him slip when she dipped him into the\nliquor which was to make him invulnerable, and he went in, heels and\nall. Some of the stone-bounds to his farm which he set up are standing\nto-day, with his initials cut in them.\n\nThe ecclesiastical history of this town interested us somewhat. It\nappears that \u201cthey very early built a small meeting-house, twenty feet\nsquare, with a thatched roof through which they might fire their\nmuskets,\u201d\u2014of course, at the Devil. \u201cIn 1662, the town agreed that a\npart of every whale cast on shore be appropriated for the support of\nthe ministry.\u201d No doubt there seemed to be some propriety in thus\nleaving the support of the ministers to Providence, whose servants they\nare, and who alone rules the storms; for, when few whales were cast up,\nthey might suspect that their worship was not acceptable. The ministers\nmust have sat upon the cliffs in every storm, and watched the shore\nwith anxiety. And, for my part, if I were a minister I would rather\ntrust to the bowels of the billows, on the back-side of Cape Cod, to\ncast up a whale for me, than to the generosity of many a country parish\nthat I know. You cannot say of a country minister\u2019s salary, commonly,\nthat it is \u201cvery like a whale.\u201d Nevertheless, the minister who depended\non whales cast up must have had a trying time of it. I would rather\nhave gone to the Falkland Isles with a harpoon, and done with it. Think\nof a whale having the breath of life beaten out of him by a storm, and\ndragging in over the bars and guzzles, for the support of the ministry!\nWhat a consolation it must have been to him! I have heard of a\nminister, who had been a fisherman, being settled in Bridgewater for as\nlong a time as he could tell a cod from a haddock. Generous as it\nseems, this condition would empty most country pulpits forthwith, for\nit is long since the fishers of men were fishermen. Also, a duty was\nput on mackerel here to support a free-school; in other words, the\nmackerel-school was taxed in order that the children\u2019s school might be\nfree. \u201cIn 1665 the Court passed a law to inflict corporal punishment on\nall persons, who resided in the towns of this government, who denied\nthe Scriptures.\u201d Think of a man being whipped on a spring morning till\nhe was constrained to confess that the Scriptures were true! \u201cIt was\nalso voted by the town that all persons who should stand out of the\nmeeting-house during the time of divine service should be set in the\nstocks.\u201d It behooved such a town to see that sitting in the\nmeeting-house was nothing akin to sitting in the stocks, lest the\npenalty of obedience to the law might be greater than that of\ndisobedience. This was the Eastham famous of late years for its\ncamp-meetings, held in a grove near by, to which thousands flock from\nall parts of the Bay. We conjectured that the reason for the perhaps\nunusual, if not unhealthful, development of the religious sentiment\nhere was the fact that a large portion of the population are women\nwhose husbands and sons are either abroad on the sea, or else drowned,\nand there is nobody but they and the ministers left behind. The old\naccount says that \u201chysteric fits are very common in Orleans, Eastham,\nand the towns below, particularly on Sunday, in the times of divine\nservice. When one woman is affected, five or six others generally\nsympathize with her; and the congregation is thrown into the utmost\nconfusion. Several old men suppose, unphilosophically and uncharitably,\nperhaps, that the will is partly concerned, and that ridicule and\nthreats would have a tendency to prevent the evil.\u201d How this is now we\ndid not learn. We saw one singularly masculine woman, however, in a\nhouse on this very plain, who did not look as if she was ever troubled\nwith hysterics, or sympathized with those that were; or, perchance,\nlife itself was to her a hysteric fit,\u2014a Nauset woman, of a hardness\nand coarseness such as no man ever possesses or suggests. It was enough\nto see the vertebrae and sinews of her neck, and her set jaws of iron,\nwhich would have bitten a board-nail in two in their ordinary\naction,\u2014braced against the world, talking like a man-of-war\u2019s-man in\npetticoats, or as if shouting to you through a breaker; who looked as\nif it made her head ache to live; hard enough for any enormity. I\nlooked upon her as one who had committed infanticide; who never had a\nbrother, unless it were some wee thing that died in infancy,\u2014for what\nneed of him?\u2014and whose father must have died before she was born. This\nwoman told us that the camp-meetings were not held the previous summer\nfor fear of introducing the cholera, and that they would have been held\nearlier this summer, but the rye was so backward that straw would not\nhave been ready for them; for they lie in straw. There are sometimes\none hundred and fifty ministers (!) and five thousand hearers\nassembled. The ground, which is called Millennium Grove, is owned by a\ncompany in Boston, and is the most suitable, or rather unsuitable, for\nthis purpose of any that I saw on the Cape. It is fenced, and the\nframes of the tents are at all times to be seen interspersed among the\noaks. They have an oven and a pump, and keep all their kitchen utensils\nand tent coverings and furniture in a permanent building on the spot.\nThey select a time for their meetings when the moon is full. A man is\nappointed to clear out the pump a week beforehand, while the ministers\nare clearing their throats; but, probably, the latter do not always\ndeliver as pure a stream as the former. I saw the heaps of clam-shells\nleft under the tables, where they had feasted in previous summers, and\nsupposed, of course, that that was the work of the unconverted, or the\nbacksliders and scoffers. It looked as if a camp-meeting must be a\nsingular combination of a prayer-meeting and a picnic.\n\n[Illustration: Millennium Grove camp-meeting grounds]\n\nThe first minister settled here was the Rev. Samuel Treat, in 1672, a\ngentleman who is said to be \u201centitled to a distinguished rank among the\nevangelists of New England.\u201d He converted many Indians, as well as\nwhite men, in his day, and translated the Confession of Faith into the\nNauset language. These were the Indians concerning whom their first\nteacher, Richard Bourne, wrote to Gookin, in 1674, that he had been to\nsee one who was sick, \u201cand there came from him very savory and heavenly\nexpressions,\u201d but, with regard to the mass of them, he says, \u201cthe truth\nis, that many of them are very loose in their course, to my\nheartbreaking sorrow.\u201d Mr. Treat is described as a Calvinist of the\nstrictest kind, not one of those who, by giving up or explaining away,\nbecome like a porcupine disarmed of its quills, but a consistent\nCalvinist, who can dart his quills to a distance and courageously\ndefend himself. There exists a volume of his sermons in manuscript,\n\u201cwhich,\u201d says a commentator, \u201cappear to have been designed for\npublication.\u201d I quote the following sentences at second hand, from a\nDiscourse on Luke xvi. 23, addressed to sinners:\u2014\n\n\u201cThou must erelong go to the bottomless pit. Hell hath enlarged\nherself, and is ready to receive thee. There is room enough for thy\nentertainment....\n\n\u201cConsider, thou art going to a place prepared by God on purpose to\nexalt his justice in,\u2014a place made for no other employment but\ntorments. Hell is God\u2019s house of correction; and, remember, God doth\nall things like himself. When God would show his justice, and what is\nthe weight of his wrath, he makes a hell where it shall, indeed, appear\nto purpose.... Woe to thy soul when thou shalt be set up as a butt for\nthe arrows of the Almighty....\n\n\u201cConsider, God himself shall be the principal agent in thy misery,\u2014his\nbreath is the bellows which blows up the flame of hell forever;\u2014and if\nhe punish thee, if he meet thee in his fury, he will not meet thee as a\nman; he will give thee an omnipotent blow.\u201d\n\n\u201cSome think sinning ends with this life; but it is a mistake. The\ncreature is held under an everlasting law; the damned increase in sin\nin hell. Possibly, the mention of this may please thee. But, remember,\nthere shall be no pleasant sins there; no eating, drinking, singing,\ndancing, wanton dalliance, and drinking stolen waters, but damned sins,\nbitter, hellish sins; sins exasperated by torments, cursing God, spite,\nrage, and blasphemy.\u2014The guilt of all thy sins shall be laid upon thy\nsoul, and be made so many heaps of fuel....\n\n\u201cSinner, I beseech thee, realize the truth of these things. Do not go\nabout to dream that this is derogatory to God\u2019s mercy, and nothing but\na vain fable to scare children out of their wits withal. God can be\nmerciful, though he make thee miserable. He shall have monuments enough\nof that precious attribute, shining like stars in the place of glory,\nand singing eternal hallelujahs to the praise of Him that redeemed\nthem, though, to exalt the power of his justice, he damn sinners heaps\nupon heaps.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d continues the same writer, \u201cwith the advantage of proclaiming\nthe doctrine of terror, which is naturally productive of a sublime and\nimpressive style of eloquence (\u2018Triumphat ventoso glori\u00e6 curru orator,\nqui pectus angit, irritat, et implet terroribus.\u2019 Vid. Burnet, De Stat.\nMort., p. 309), he could not attain the character of a popular\npreacher. His voice was so loud that it could be heard at a great\ndistance from the meeting-house, even amidst the shrieks of hysterical\nwomen, and the winds that howled over the plains of Nauset; but there\nwas no more music in it than in the discordant sounds with which it was\nmingled.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe effect of such preaching,\u201d it is said, \u201cwas that his hearers were\nseveral times, in the course of his ministry, awakened and alarmed; and\non one occasion a comparatively innocent young man was frightened\nnearly out of his wits, and Mr. Treat had to exert himself to make hell\nseem somewhat cooler to him\u201d; yet we are assured that \u201cTreat\u2019s manners\nwere cheerful, his conversation pleasant, and sometimes facetious, but\nalways decent. He was fond of a stroke of humor, and a practical joke,\nand manifested his relish for them by long and loud fits of laughter.\u201d\n\nThis was the man of whom a well-known anecdote is told, which doubtless\nmany of my readers have heard, but which, nevertheless, I will venture\nto quote:\u2014\n\n\u201cAfter his marriage with the daughter of Mr. Willard (pastor of the\nSouth Church in Boston), he was sometimes invited by that gentleman to\npreach in his pulpit. Mr. Willard possessed a graceful delivery, a\nmasculine and harmonious voice; and, though he did not gain much\nreputation by his \u2018Body of Divinity,\u2019 which is frequently sneered at,\nparticularly by those who have read it, yet in his sermons are strength\nof thought and energy of language. The natural consequence was that he\nwas generally admired. Mr. Treat having preached one of his best\ndiscourses to the congregation of his father-in-law, in his usual\nunhappy manner, excited universal disgust; and several nice judges\nwaited on Mr. Willard, and begged that Mr. Treat, who was a worthy,\npious man, it was true, but a wretched preacher, might never be invited\ninto his pulpit again. To this request Mr. Willard made no reply; but\nhe desired his son-in-law to lend him the discourse; which being left\nwith him, he delivered it without alteration to his people a few weeks\nafter. They ran to Mr. Willard and requested a copy for the press. \u2018See\nthe difference,\u2019 they cried, \u2018between yourself and your son-in-law; you\nhave preached a sermon on the same text as Mr. Treat\u2019s, but whilst his\nwas contemptible, yours is excellent.\u2019 As is observed in a note, \u2018Mr.\nWillard, after producing the sermon in the handwriting of Mr. Treat,\nmight have addressed these sage critics in the words of Phaedrus,\n\n\u201c\u2018En hic declarat, quales sitis judices.\u2019\u201d[2]\n\n\nMr. Treat died of a stroke of the palsy, just after the memorable storm\nknown as the Great Snow, which left the ground around his house\nentirely bare, but heaped up the snow in the road to an uncommon\nheight. Through this an arched way was dug, by which the Indians bore\nhis bod to the grave.\n\nThe reader will imagine us, all the while, steadily traversing that\nextensive plain in a direction a little north of east toward Nauset\nBeach, and reading under our umbrellas as we sailed, while it blowed\nhard with mingled mist and rain, as if we were approaching a fit\nanniversary of Mr. Treat\u2019s funeral. We fancied that it was such a moor\nas that on which somebody perished in the snow, as is related in the\n\u201cLights and Shadows of Scottish Life.\u201d\n\nThe next minister settled here was the \u201cRev. Samuel Osborn, who was\nborn in Ireland, and educated at the University of Dublin.\u201d He is said\nto have been \u201cA man of wisdom and virtue,\u201d and taught his people the\nuse of peat, and the art of drying and preparing it, which as they had\nscarcely any other fuel, was a great blessing to them. He also\nintroduced improvements in agriculture. But, notwithstanding his many\nservices, as he embraced the religion of Arminius, some of his flock\nbecame dissatisfied. At length, an ecclesiastical council, consisting\nof ten ministers, with their churches, sat upon him, and they,\nnaturally enough, spoiled his usefulness. The council convened at the\ndesire of two divine philosophers,\u2014Joseph Doane and Nathaniel Freeman.\n\nIn their report they say, \u201cIt appears to the council that the Rev. Mr.\nOsborn hath, in his preaching to this people, said, that what Christ\ndid and suffered doth nothing abate or diminish our obligation to obey\nthe law of God, and that Christ\u2019s suffering and obedience were for\nhimself; both parts of which, we think, contain dangerous error.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlso: \u2018It hath been said, and doth appear to this council, that the\nRev. Mr. Osborn, both in public and in private, asserted that there are\nno promises in the Bible but what are conditional, which we think,\nalso, to be an error, and do say that there are promises which are\nabsolute and without any condition,\u2014such as the promise of a new heart,\nand that he will write his law in our hearts.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cAlso, they say, \u2018it hath been alleged, and doth appear to us, that Mr.\nOsborn hath declared, that _obedience_ is a considerable _cause_ of a\nperson\u2019s justification, which, we think, contains very dangerous\nerror.\u2019\u201d\n\nAnd many the like distinctions they made, such as some of my readers,\nprobably, are more familiar with than I am. So, far in the East, among\nthe Yezidis, or Worshippers of the Devil, so-called, the Chaldaeans,\nand others, according to the testimony of travellers, you may still\nhear these remarkable disputations on doctrinal points going on. Osborn\nwas, accordingly, dismissed, and he removed to Boston, where he kept\nschool for many years. But he was fully justified, methinks, by his\nworks in the peat-meadow; one proof of which is, that he lived to be\nbetween ninety and one hundred years old.\n\nThe next minister was the Rev. Benjamin Webb, of whom, though a\nneighboring clergy-man pronounced him \u201cthe best man and the best\nminister whom he ever knew,\u201d yet the historian says that,\n\n\u201cAs he spent his days in the uniform discharge of his duty (it reminds\none of a country muster) and there were no shades to give relief to his\ncharacter, not much can be said of him. (Pity the Devil did not plant a\nfew shade-trees along his avenues.) His heart was as pure as the\nnew-fallen snow, which completely covers every dark spot in a field;\nhis mind was as serene as the sky in a mild evening in June, when the\nmoon shines without a cloud. Name any virtue, and that virtue he\npractised; name any vice, and that vice he shunned. But if peculiar\nqualities marked his character, they were his humility, his gentleness,\nand his love of God. The people had long been taught by a son of\nthunder (Mr. Treat): in him they were instructed by a son of\nconsolation, who sweetly allured them to virtue by soft persuasion, and\nby exhibiting the mercy of the Supreme Being; for his thoughts were so\nmuch in heaven that they seldom descended to the dismal regions below;\nand though of the same religious sentiments as Mr. Treat, yet his\nattention was turned to those glad tidings of great joy which a Saviour\ncame to publish.\u201d\n\nWe were interested to hear that such a man had trodden the plains of\nNauset.\n\nTurning over further in our book, our eyes fell on the name of the Rev.\nJonathan Bascom, of Orleans; \u201cSenex emunct\u00e6 naris, doctus, et auctor\nelegantium verborum, facetus, et dulcis festique sermonis.\u201d And, again,\non that of the Rev. Nathan Stone, of Dennis: \u201cVir humilis, mitis,\nblandus, advenarum hospes; (there was need of him there;) suis commodis\nin terr\u00e2 non studens, reconditis thesauris in c\u0153lo.\u201d An easy virtue\nthat, there, for methinks no inhabitant of Dennis could be very\nstudious about his earthly commodity, but must regard the bulk of his\ntreasures as in heaven. But probably the most just and pertinent\ncharacter of all is that which appears to be given to the Rev. Ephraim\nBriggs, of Chatham, in the language of the later Romans, \u201c_Seip,\nsepoese, sepoemese, wechekum_,\u201d\u2014which not being interpreted, we know\nnot what it means, though we have no doubt it occurs somewhere in the\nScriptures, probably in the Apostle Eliot\u2019s Epistle to the Nipmucks.\n\nLet no one think that I do not love the old ministers. They were,\nprobably, the best men of their generation, and they deserve that their\nbiographies should fill the pages of the town histories. If I could but\nhear the \u201cglad tidings\u201d of which they tell, and which, perchance, they\nheard, I might write in a worthier strain than this.\n\nThere was no better way to make the reader realize how wide and\npeculiar that plain was, and how long it took to traverse it, than by\ninserting these extracts in the midst of my narrative.\n\n [1] They touched after this at a place called Mattachiest, where they\n got more corn; but their shallop being cast away in a storm, the\n Governor was obliged to return to Plymouth on foot, fifty miles\n through the woods. According to Mourt\u2019s Relation, \u201che came safely\n home, though weary and _surbated_,\u201d that is, foot-sore. (Ital.\n _sobattere_, Lat. _sub_ or _solea battere_, to bruise the soles of the\n feet; v. Dic. Not \u201cfrom _acerbatus_, embittered or aggrieved,\u201d as one\n commentator on this passage supposes.) This word is of very rare\n occurrence, being applied only to governors and persons of like\n description, who are in that predicament; though such generally have\n considerable mileage allowed them, and might save their soles if they\n cared.\n\n\n [2] Lib. v. Fab. 5.\n\n\n\n\nIV\nTHE BEACH\n\n\nAt length we reached the seemingly retreating boundary of the plain,\nand entered what had appeared at a distance an upland marsh, but proved\nto be dry sand covered with Beach-grass, the Bearberry, Bayberry,\nShrub-oaks, and Beach-plum, slightly ascending as we approached the\nshore; then, crossing over a belt of sand on which nothing grew, though\nthe roar of the sea sounded scarcely louder than before, and we were\nprepared to go half a mile farther, we suddenly stood on the edge of a\nbluff overlooking the Atlantic. Far below us was the beach, from half a\ndozen to a dozen rods in width, with a long line of breakers rushing to\nthe strand. The sea was exceedingly dark and stormy, the sky completely\novercast, the clouds still dropping rain, and the wind seemed to blow\nnot so much as the exciting cause, as from sympathy with the already\nagitated ocean. The waves broke on the bars at some distance from the\nshore, and curving green or yellow as if over so many unseen dams, ten\nor twelve feet high, like a thousand waterfalls, rolled in foam to the\nsand. There was nothing but that savage ocean between us and Europe.\n\nHaving got down the bank, and as close to the water as we could, where\nthe sand was the hardest, leaving the Nauset Lights behind us, we began\nto walk leisurely up the beach, in a northwest direction, towards\nProvincetown, which was about twenty-five miles distant, still sailing\nunder our umbrellas with a strong aft wind, admiring in silence, as we\nwalked, the great force of the ocean stream,\u2014\n\n\u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03b1\u03bc\u03bf\u1fd6\u03bf \u03bc\u03ad\u03b3\u03b1 \u03c3\u03b8\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2 \u1f68\u03ba\u03b5\u03b1\u03bd\u03bf\u1fd6\u03bf.\n\n\nThe white breakers were rushing to the shore; the foam ran up the sand,\nand then ran back as far as we could see (and we imagined how much\nfarther along the Atlantic coast, before and behind us), as regularly,\nto compare great things with small, as the master of a choir beats time\nwith his white wand; and ever and anon a higher wave caused us hastily\nto deviate from our path, and we looked back on our tracks filled with\nwater and foam. The breakers looked like droves of a thousand wild\nhorses of Neptune, rushing to the shore, with their white manes\nstreaming far behind; and when at length the sun shone for a moment,\ntheir manes were rainbow-tinted. Also, the long kelp-weed was tossed up\nfrom time to time, like the tails of sea-cows sporting in the brine.\n\n[Illustration: A Cape Cod citizen]\n\nThere was not a sail in sight, and we saw none that day,\u2014for they had\nall sought harbors in the late storm, and had not been able to get out\nagain; and the only human beings whom we saw on the beach for several\ndays were one or two wreckers looking for drift-wood, and fragments of\nwrecked vessels. After an easterly storm in the spring, this beach is\nsometimes strewn with eastern wood from one end to the other, which, as\nit belongs to him who saves it, and the Cape is nearly destitute of\nwood, is a Godsend to the inhabitants. We soon met one of these\nwreckers,\u2014a regular Cape Cod man, with whom we parleyed, with a\nbleached and weather-beaten face, within whose wrinkles I distinguished\nno particular feature. It was like an old sail endowed with life,\u2014a\nhanging cliff of weather-beaten flesh,\u2014like one of the clay boulders\nwhich occurred in that sand-bank. He had on a hat which had seen salt\nwater, and a coat of many pieces and colors, though it was mainly the\ncolor of the beach, as if it had been sanded. His variegated back\u2014for\nhis coat had many patches, even between the shoulders\u2014was a rich study\nto us, when we had passed him and looked round. It might have been\ndishonorable for him to have so many scars behind, it is true, if he\nhad not had many more and more serious ones in front. He looked as if\nhe sometimes saw a doughnut, but never descended to comfort; too grave\nto laugh, too tough to cry; as indifferent as a clam,\u2014like a sea-clam\nwith hat on and legs, that was out walking the strand. He may have been\none of the Pilgrims,\u2014Peregrine White, at least,\u2014who has kept on the\nback-side of the Cape, and let the centuries go by. He was looking for\nwrecks, old logs, water-logged and covered with barnacles, or bits of\nboards and joists, even chips, which he drew out of the reach of the\ntide, and stacked up to dry. When the log was too large to carry far,\nhe cut it up where the last wave had left it, or rolling it a few feet\nappropriated it by sticking two sticks into the ground crosswise above\nit. Some rotten trunk, which in Maine cumbers the ground, and is,\nperchance, thrown into the water on purpose, is here thus carefully\npicked up, split and dried, and husbanded. Before winter the wrecker\npainfully carries these things up the bank on his shoulders by a long\ndiagonal slanting path made with a hoe in the sand, if there is no\nhollow at hand. You may see his hooked pike-staff always lying on the\nbank ready for use. He is the true monarch of the beach, whose \u201cright\nthere is none to dispute,\u201d and he is as much identified with it as a\nbeach-bird.\n\nCrantz, in his account of Greenland, quotes Dalagen\u2019s relation of the\nways and usages of the Greenlanders, and says, \u201cWhoever finds\ndriftwood, or the spoils of a shipwreck on the strand, enjoys it as his\nown, though, he does not live there. But he must haul it ashore and lay\na stone upon it, as a token that some one has taken possession of it,\nand this stone is the deed of security, for no other Greenlander will\noffer to meddle with it afterwards.\u201d Such is the instinctive law of\nnations. We have also this account of drift-wood in Crantz: \u201cAs he (the\nFounder of Nature) has denied this frigid rocky region the growth of\ntrees, he has bid the streams of the Ocean to convey to its shores a\ngreat deal of wood, which accordingly comes floating thither, part\nwithout ice, but the most part along with it, and lodges itself between\nthe islands. Were it not for this, we Europeans should have no wood to\nburn there, and the poor Greenlanders (who, it is true, do not use\nwood, but train, for burning) would, however, have no wood to roof\ntheir houses, to erect their tents, as also to build their boats, and\nto shaft their arrows (yet there grew some small but crooked alders,\n&c.), by which they must procure their maintenance, clothing and train\nfor warmth, light, and cooking. Among this wood are great trees torn up\nby the roots, which by driving up and down for many years and rubbing\non the ice, are quite bare of branches and bark, and corroded with\ngreat wood-worms. A small part of this drift-wood are willows, alder\nand birch trees, which come out of the bays in the south of (_i.e._\nGreenland); also large trunks of aspen-trees, which must come from a\ngreater distance; but the greatest part is pine and fir. We find also a\ngood deal of a sort of wood finely veined, with few branches; this I\nfancy is larch-wood, which likes to decorate the sides of lofty, stony\nmountains. There is also a solid, reddish wood, of a more agreeable\nfragrance than the common fir, with visible cross-veins; which I take\nto be the same species as the beautiful silver-firs, or _zirbel_, that\nhave the smell of cedar, and grow on the high Grison hills, and the\nSwitzers wainscot their rooms with them.\u201d The wrecker directed us to a\nslight depression, called Snow\u2019s Hollow, by which we ascended the\nbank,\u2014for elsewhere, if not difficult, it was inconvenient to climb it\non account of the sliding sand, which filled our shoes.\n\nThis sand-bank\u2014the backbone of the Cape\u2014rose directly from the beach to\nthe height of a hundred feet or more above the ocean. It was with\nsingular emotions that we first stood upon it and discovered what a\nplace we had chosen to walk on. On our right, beneath us, was the beach\nof smooth and gently sloping sand, a dozen rods in width; next, the\nendless series of white breakers; further still, the light green water\nover the bar, which runs the whole length of the forearm of the Cape,\nand beyond this stretched the unwearied and illimitable ocean. On our\nleft, extending back from the very edge of the bank, was a perfect\ndesert of shining sand, from thirty to eighty rods in width, skirted in\nthe distance by small sand-hills fifteen or twenty feet high; between\nwhich, however, in some places, the sand penetrated as much farther.\nNext commenced the region of vegetation\u2014a succession of small hills and\nvalleys covered with shrubbery, now glowing with the brightest\nimaginable autumnal tints; and beyond this were seen, here and there,\nthe waters of the bay. Here, in Wellfleet, this pure sand plateau,\nknown to sailors as the Table Lands of Eastham, on account of its\nappearance, as seen from the ocean, and because it once made a part of\nthat town,\u2014full fifty rods in width, and in many places much more, and\nsometimes full one hundred and fifty feet above the ocean,\u2014stretched\naway northward from the southern boundary of the town, without a\nparticle of vegetation,\u2014as level almost as a table,\u2014for two and a half\nor three miles, or as far as the eye could reach; slightly rising\ntowards the ocean, then stooping to the beach, by as steep a slope as\nsand could lie on, and as regular as a military engineer could desire.\nIt was like the escarped rampart of a stupendous fortress, whose glacis\nwas the beach, and whose champaign the ocean.\u2014From its surface we\noverlooked the greater part of the Cape. In short, we were traversing a\ndesert, with the view of an autumnal landscape of extraordinary\nbrilliancy, a sort of Promised Land, on the one hand, and the ocean on\nthe other. Yet, though the prospect was so extensive, and the country\nfor the most part destitute of trees, a house was rarely visible,\u2014we\nnever saw one from the beach,\u2014and the solitude was that of the ocean\nand the desert combined. A thousand men could not have seriously\ninterrupted it, but would have been lost in the vastness of the scenery\nas their footsteps in the sand.\n\nThe whole coast is so free from rocks, that we saw but one or two for\nmore than twenty miles. The sand was soft like the beach, and trying to\nthe eyes when the sun shone. A few piles of drift-wood, which some\nwreckers had painfully brought up the bank and stacked up there to dry,\nbeing the only objects in the desert, looked indefinitely large and\ndistant, even like wigwams, though, when we stood near them, they\nproved to be insignificant little \u201cjags\u201d of wood.\n\nFor sixteen miles, commencing at the Nauset Lights, the bank held its\nheight, though farther north it was not so level as here, but\ninterrupted by slight hollows, and the patches of Beach-grass and\nBayberry frequently crept into the sand to its edge. There are some\npages entitled \u201cA description of the Eastern Coast of the County of\nBarnstable,\u201d printed in 1802, pointing out the spots on which the\nTrustees of the Humane Society have erected huts called Charity or\nHumane Houses, \u201cand other places where shipwrecked seamen may look for\nshelter.\u201d Two thousand copies of this were dispersed, that every vessel\nwhich frequented this coast might be provided with one. I have read\nthis Shipwrecked Seaman\u2019s Manual with a melancholy kind of\ninterest,\u2014for the sound of the surf, or, you might say, the moaning of\nthe sea, is heard all through it, as if its author were the sole\nsurvivor of a shipwreck himself. Of this part of the coast he says:\n\u201cThis highland approaches the ocean with steep and lofty banks, which\nit is extremely difficult to climb, especially in a storm. In violent\ntempests, during very high tides, the sea breaks against the foot of\nthem, rendering it then unsafe to walk on the strand which lies between\nthem and the ocean. Should the seaman succeed in his attempt to ascend\nthem, he must forbear to penetrate into the country, as houses are\ngenerally so remote that they would escape his research during the\nnight; he must pass on to the valleys by which the banks are\nintersected. These valleys, which the inhabitants call Hollows, run at\nright angles with the shore, and in the middle or lowest part of them a\nroad leads from the dwelling-houses to the sea.\u201d By the _word_ road\nmust not always be understood a visible cart-track.\n\nThere were these two roads for us,\u2014an upper and a lower one,\u2014the bank\nand the beach; both stretching twenty-eight miles northwest, from\nNauset Harbor to Race Point, without a single opening into the beach,\nand with hardly a serious interruption of the desert. If you were to\nford the narrow and shallow inlet at Nauset Harbor, where there is not\nmore than eight feet of water on the bar at full sea, you might walk\nten or twelve miles farther, which would make a beach forty miles\nlong,\u2014and the bank and beach, on the east side of Nantucket, are but a\ncontinuation of these. I was comparatively satisfied. There I had got\nthe Cape under me, as much as if I were riding it bare-backed. It was\nnot as on the map, or seen from the stagecoach; but there I found it\nall out of doors, huge and real, Cape Cod! as it cannot be represented\non a map, color it as you will; the thing itself, than which there is\nnothing more like it, no truer picture or account; which you cannot go\nfarther and see. I cannot remember what I thought before that it was.\nThey commonly celebrate those beaches only which have a hotel on them,\nnot those which have a Humane house alone. But I wished to see that\nseashore where man\u2019s works are wrecks; to put up at the true Atlantic\nHouse, where the ocean is land-lord as well as sea-lord, and comes\nashore without a wharf for the landing; where the crumbling land is the\nonly invalid, or at best is but dry land, and that is all you can say\nof it.\n\nWe walked on quite at our leisure, now on the beach, now on the\nbank,\u2014sitting from time to time on some damp log, maple or yellow\nbirch, which had long followed the seas, but had now at last settled on\nland; or under the lee of a sandhill, on the bank, that we might gaze\nsteadily on the ocean. The bank was so steep that, where there was no\ndanger of its caving, we sat on its edge, as on a bench. It was\ndifficult for us landsmen to look out over the ocean without imagining\nland in the horizon; yet the clouds appeared to hang low over it, and\nrest on the water as they never do on the land, perhaps on account of\nthe great distance to which we saw. The sand was not without advantage,\nfor, though it was \u201cheavy\u201d walking in it, it was soft to the feet; and,\nnotwithstanding that it had been raining nearly two days, when it held\nup for half an hour, the sides of the sand-hills, which were porous and\nsliding, afforded a dry seat. All the aspects of this desert are\nbeautiful, whether you behold it in fair weather or foul, or when the\nsun is just breaking out after a storm, and shining on its moist\nsurface in the distance, it is so white, and pure, and level, and each\nslight inequality and track is so distinctly revealed; and when your\neyes slide off this, they fall on the ocean. In summer the mackerel\ngulls\u2014which here have their nests among the neighboring\nsand-hills\u2014pursue the traveller anxiously, now and then diving close to\nhis head with a squeak, and he may see them, like swallows, chase some\ncrow which has been feeding on the beach, almost across the Cape.\n\nThough for some time I have not spoken of the roaring of the breakers,\nand the ceaseless flux and reflux of the waves, yet they did not for a\nmoment cease to dash and roar, with such a tumult that if you had been\nthere, you could scarcely have heard my voice the while; and they are\ndashing and roaring this very moment, though it may be with less din\nand violence, for there the sea never rests. We were wholly absorbed by\nthis spectacle and tumult, and like Chryses, though in a different mood\nfrom him, we walked silent along the shore of the resounding sea,\n\n\u0392\u1fc6 \u03b4\u2019 \u1f00\u03ba\u03ad\u03c9\u03bd \u03c0\u03b1\u03c1\u1f70 \u03b8\u1fd6\u03bd\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03c5\u03c6\u03bb\u03bf\u03af\u03c3\u03b2\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf \u03b8\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03c3\u03c3\u03b7\u03c2.[1]\n\n\nI put in a little Greek now and then, partly because it sounds so much\nlike the ocean,\u2014though I doubt if Homer\u2019s _Mediterranean_ Sea ever\nsounded so loud as this.\n\nThe attention of those who frequent the camp-meetings at Eastham is\nsaid to be divided between the preaching of the Methodists and the\npreaching of the billows on the back-side of the Cape, for they all\nstream over here in the course of their stay. I trust that in this case\nthe loudest voice carries it. With what effect may we suppose the ocean\nto say, \u201cMy hearers!\u201d to the multitude on the bank! On that side some\nJohn N. Maffit; on this, the Reverend Poluphloisboios Thalassa.\n\nThere was but little weed cast up here, and that kelp chiefly, there\nbeing scarcely a rock for rockweed to adhere to. Who has not had a\nvision from some vessel\u2019s deck, when he had still his land-legs on, of\nthis great brown apron, drifting half upright, and quite submerged\nthrough the green water, clasping a stone or a deep-sea mussel in its\nunearthly fingers? I have seen it carrying a stone half as large as my\nhead. We sometimes watched a mass of this cable-like weed, as it was\ntossed up on the crest of a breaker, waiting with interest to see it\ncome in, as if there were some treasure buoyed up by it; but we were\nalways surprised and disappointed at the insignificance of the mass\nwhich had attracted us. As we looked out over the water, the smallest\nobjects floating on it appeared indefinitely large, we were so\nimpressed by the vastness of the ocean, and each one bore so large a\nproportion to the whole ocean, which we saw. We were so often\ndisappointed in the size of such things as came ashore, the ridiculous\nbits of wood or weed, with which the ocean labored, that we began to\ndoubt whether the Atlantic itself would bear a still closer inspection,\nand wold not turn out to be a but small pond, if it should come ashore\nto us. This kelp, oar-weed, tangle, devils-apron, sole-leather, or\nribbon-weed,\u2014as various species are called,\u2014appeared to us a singularly\nmarine and fabulous product, a lit invention for Neptune to adorn his\ncar with, or a freak of Proteus. All that is told of the sea has a\nfabulous sound to an inhabitant of the land, and all its products have\na certain fabulous quality, as if they belonged to another planet, from\nsea-weed to a sailor\u2019s yarn, or a fish-story. In this element the\nanimal and vegetable kingdoms meet and are strangely mingled. One\nspecies of kelp, according to Bory St. Vincent, has a stem fifteen\nhundred feet long, and hence is the longest vegetable known, and a\nbrig\u2019s crew spent two days to no purpose collecting the trunks of\nanother kind cast ashore on the Falkland Islands, mistaking it for\ndrift-wood. (See Harvey on _Alg\u00e6_) This species looked almost edible;\nat least, I thought that if I were starving I would try it. One sailor\ntold me that the cows ate it. It cut like cheese: for I took the\nearliest opportunity to sit down and deliberately whittle up a fathom\nor two of it, that I might become more intimately acquainted with it,\nsee how it cut, and if it were hollow all the way through. The blade\nlooked like a broad belt, whose edges had been quilled, or as if\nstretched by hammering, and it was also twisted spirally. The extremity\nwas generally worn and ragged from the lashing of the waves. A piece of\nthe stem which I carried home shrunk to one quarter of its size a week\nafterward, and was completely covered with crystals of salt like frost.\nThe reader will excuse my greenness,\u2014though it is not sea-greenness,\nlike his, perchance,\u2014for I live by a river-shore, where this weed does\nnot wash up. When we consider in what meadows it grew. and how it was\nraked, and in what kind of hay weather got in or out, we may well be\ncurious about it. One who is weatherwise has given the following\naccount of the matter.\n\n\u201cWhen descends on the Atlantic\n        The gigantic\n    Storm-wind of the equinox,\nLandward in his wrath he scourges\n        The toiling surges,\nLaden with sea-weed from the rocks.\n\n\u201cFrom Bermuda\u2019s reefs, from edges\n        Of sunken ledges,\n    On some far-off bright Azore;\nFrom Bahama and the dashing,\n    Silver-flashing\nSurges of San Salvador;\n\n\u201cFrom the trembling surf that buries\n        The Orkneyan Skerries.\n    Answering the hoarse Hebrides;\nAnd from wrecks and ships and drifting\n    Spars, uplifting\nOn the desolate rainy seas;\n\n\u201cEver drifting, drifting, drifting\nOn the shifting\nCurrents of the restless main.\u201d\n\nBut he was not thinking of this shore, when he added:\u2014\n\n\u201cTill, in sheltered coves and reaches\n    Of sandy beaches,\nAll have found repose again.\u201d\n\n\n_These_ weeds were the symbols of those grotesque and fabulous thoughts\nwhich have not yet got into the sheltered coves of literature.\n\n\u201cEver drifting, drifting, drifting\n        On the shifting\n    Currents of the restless heart,\u201d\n_And not yet_ \u201cin books recorded\n    They, like hoarded\nHousehold words, no more depart.\u201d\n\n\nThe beach was also strewn with beautiful sea-jellies, which the\nwreckers called Sun-squall, one of the lowest forms of animal life,\nsome white, some wine-colored, and a foot in diameter. I at first\nthought that they were a tender part of some marine monster, which the\nstorm or some other foe had mangled. What right has the sea to bear in\nits bosom such tender things as sea-jellies and mosses, when it has\nsuch a boisterous shore that the stoutest fabrics are wrecked against\nit? Strange that it should undertake to dandle such delicate children\nin its arm. I did not at first recognize these for the same which I had\nformerly seen in myriads in Boston Harbor, rising, with a waving\nmotion, to the surface, as if to meet the sun, and discoloring the\nwaters far and wide, so that I seemed to be sailing through a mere\nsunfish soup. They say that when you endeavor to take one up, it will\nspill out the other side of your hand like quicksilver. Before the land\nrose out of the ocean, and became _dry_ land, chaos reigned; and\nbetween high and low water mark, where she is partially disrobed and\nrising, a sort of chaos reigns still, which only anomalous creatures\ncan inhabit. Mackerel-gulls were all the while flying over our heads\nand amid the breakers, sometimes two white ones pursuing a black one;\nquite at home in the storm, though they are as delicate organizations\nas sea-jellies and mosses; and we saw that they were adapted to their\ncircumstances rather by their spirits than their bodies. Theirs must be\nan essentially wilder, that is, less human, nature than that of larks\nand robins. Their note was like the sound of some vibrating metal, and\nharmonized well with the scenery and the roar of the surf, as if one\nhad rudely touched the strings of the lyre, which ever lies on the\nshore; a ragged shred of ocean music tossed aloft on the spray. But if\nI were required to name a sound the remembrance of which most perfectly\nrevives the impression which the beach has made, it would be the dreary\npeep of the piping plover (_Charadrius melodus_) which haunts there.\nTheir voices, too, are heard as a fugacious part in the dirge which is\never played along the shore for those mariners who have been lost in\nthe deep since first it was created. But through all this dreariness we\nseemed to have a pure and unqualified strain of eternal melody, for\nalways the same strain which is a dirge to one household is a morning\nsong of rejoicing to another.\n\nA remarkable method of catching gulls, derived from the Indians, was\npractised in Wellfleet in 1794. \u201cThe Gull House,\u201d it is said, \u201cis built\nwith crotchets, fixed in the ground on the beach,\u201d poles being\nstretched across for the top, and the sides made close with stakes and\nseaweed. \u201cThe poles on the top are covered with lean whale. The man\nbeing placed within, is not discovered by the fowls, and while they are\ncontending for and eating the flesh, he draws them in, one by one,\nbetween the poles, until he has collected forty or fifty.\u201d Hence,\nperchance, a man is said to be _gulled_, when he is _taken in_. We read\nthat one \u201csort of gulls is called by the Dutch _mallemucke, i.e._ the\nfoolish fly, because they fall upon a whale as eagerly as a fly, and,\nindeed, all gulls are foolishly bold and easy to be shot. The\nNorwegians call this bird _havhest_, sea-horse (and the English\ntranslator says, it is probably what we call boobies). If they have\neaten too much, they throw it up, and eat it again till they are tired.\nIt is this habit in the gulls of parting with their property\n[disgorging the contents of their stomachs to the skuas], which has\ngiven rise to the terms gull, guller, and gulling, among men.\u201d We also\nread that they used to kill small birds which roosted on the beach at\nnight, by making a fire with hog\u2019s lard in a frying-pan. The Indians\nprobably used pine torches; the birds flocked to the light, and were\nknocked down with a stick. We noticed holes dug near the edge of the\nbank, where gunners conceal themselves to shoot the large gulls which\ncoast up and down a-fishing, for these are considered good to eat.\n\nWe found some large clams of the species _Mactra solidissima_, which\nthe storm had torn up from the bottom, and cast ashore. I selected one\nof the largest, about six inches in length, and carried it along,\nthinking to try an experiment on it. We soon after met a wrecker, with\na grapple and a rope, who said that he was looking for tow cloth, which\nhad made part of the cargo of the ship _Franklin_, which was wrecked\nhere in the spring, at which time nine or ten lives were lost. The\nreader may remember this wreck, from the circumstance that a letter was\nfound in the captain\u2019s valise, which washed ashore, directing him to\nwreck the vessel before he got to America, and from the trial which\ntook place in consequence. The wrecker said that tow cloth was still\ncast up in such storms as this. He also told us that the clam which I\nhad was the sea-clam, or hen, and was good to eat. We took our nooning\nunder a sand-hill, covered with beach-grass, in a dreary little hollow,\non the top of the bank, while it alternately rained and shined. There,\nhaving reduced some damp drift-wood, which I had picked up on the\nshore, to shavings with my knife, I kindled a fire with a match and\nsome paper and cooked my clam on the embers for my dinner; for\nbreakfast was commonly the only meal which I took in a house on this\nexcursion. When the clam was done, one valve held the meat and the\nother the liquor. Though it was very tough, I found it sweet and\nsavory, and ate _the whole_ with a relish. Indeed, with the addition of\na cracker or two, it would have been a bountiful dinner. I noticed that\nthe shells were such as I had seen in the sugar-kit at home. Tied to a\nstick, they formerly made the Indian\u2019s hoe hereabouts.\n\nAt length, by mid-afternoon, after we had had two or three rainbows\nover the sea, the showers ceased, and the heavens gradually cleared up,\nthough the wind still blowed as hard and the breakers ran as high as\nbefore. Keeping on, we soon after came to a Charity-house, which we\nlooked into to see how the shipwrecked mariner might fare. Far away in\nsome desolate hollow by the sea-side, just within the bank, stands a\nlonely building on piles driven into the sand, with a slight nail put\nthrough the staple, which a freezing man can bend, with some straw,\nperchance, on the floor on which he may lie, or which he may burn in\nthe fireplace to keep him alive. Perhaps this hut has never been\nrequired to shelter a ship-wrecked man, and the benevolent person who\npromised to inspect it annually, to see that the straw and matches are\nhere, and that the boards will keep off the wind, has grown remiss and\nthinks that storms and shipwrecks are over; and this very night a\nperishing crew may pry open its door with their numbed fingers and\nleave half their number dead here by morning. When I thought what must\nbe the condition of the families which alone would ever occupy or had\noccupied them, what must have been the tragedy of the winter evenings\nspent by human beings around their hearths, these houses, though they\nwere meant for human dwellings, did not look cheerful to me. They\nappeared but a stage to the grave. The gulls flew around and screamed\nover them; the roar of the ocean in storms, and the lapse of its waves\nin calms, alone resounds through them, all dark and empty within, year\nin, year out, except, perchance, on one memorable night. Houses of\nentertainment for shipwrecked men! What kind of sailors\u2019 homes were\nthey?\n\n[Illustration: Wreckage under the sand-bluff]\n\n\u201cEach hut,\u201d says the author of the \u201cDescription of the Eastern Coast of\nthe County of Barnstable,\u201d \u201cstands on piles, is eight feet long, eight\nfeet wide, and seven feet high; a sliding door is on the south, a\nsliding shutter on the west, and a pole, rising fifteen feet above the\ntop of the building, on the east. Within it is supplied either with\nstraw or hay, and is further accommodated with a bench.\u201d They have\nvaried little from this model now. There are similar huts at the Isle\nof Sable and Anticosti, on the north, and how far south along the coast\nI know not. It is pathetic to read the minute and faithful directions\nwhich he gives to seamen who may be wrecked on this coast, to guide\nthem to the nearest Charity-house, or other shelter, for, as is said of\nEastham, though there are a few houses within a mile of the shore, yet\n\u201cin a snow-storm, which rages here with excessive fury, it would be\nalmost impossible to discover them either by night or by day.\u201d You hear\ntheir imaginary guide thus marshalling, cheering, directing the\ndripping, shivering, freezing troop along; \u201cat the entrance of this\nvalley the sand has gathered, so that at present a little climbing is\nnecessary. Passing over several fences and taking heed not to enter the\nwood on the right hand, at the distance of three-quarters of a mile a\nhouse is to be found. This house stands on the south side of the road,\nand not far from it on the south is Pamet River, which runs from east\nto west through body of salt marsh.\u201d To him cast ashore in Eastham, he\nsays, \u201cThe meeting-house is without a steeple, but it may be\ndistinguished from the dwelling-houses near it by its situation, which\nis between two small groves of locusts, one on the south and one on the\nnorth,\u2014that on the south being three times as long as the other. About\na mile and a quarter from the hut, west by north, appear the top and\narms of a windmill.\u201d And so on for many pages.\n\nWe did not learn whether these houses had been the means of saving any\nlives, though this writer says, of one erected at the head of Stout\u2019s\nCreek in Truro, that \u201cit was built in an improper manner, having a\nchimney in it; and was placed on a spot where no beach-grass grew. The\nstrong winds blew the sand from its foundation and the weight of the\nchimney brought it to the ground; so that in January of the present\nyear [1802] it was entirely demolished. This event took place about six\nweeks before the _Brutus_ was cast away. If it had remained, it is\nprobable that the whole of the unfortunate crew of that ship would have\nbeen saved, as they gained the shore a few rods only from the spot\nwhere the hut had stood.\u201d\n\nThis \u201cCharity-house,\u201d as the wrecker called it, this \u201cHumane-house,\u201d as\nsome call it, that is, the one to which we first came, had neither\nwindow nor sliding shutter, nor clapboards, nor paint. As we have said,\nthere was a rusty nail put through the staple. However, as we wished to\nget an idea of a Humane house, and we hoped that we should never have a\nbetter opportunity, we put our eyes, by turns, to a knot-hole in the\ndoor, and after long looking, without seeing, into the dark,\u2014not\nknowing how many shipwrecked men\u2019s bones we might see at last, looking\nwith the eye of faith, knowing that, though to him that knocketh it may\nnot always be opened, yet to him that looketh long enough through a\nknot-hole the inside shall be visible,\u2014for we had had some practice at\nlooking inward,\u2014by steadily keeping our other ball covered from the\nlight meanwhile, putting the outward world behind us, ocean and land,\nand the beach,\u2014till the pupil became enlarged and collected the rays of\nlight that were wandering in that dark (for the pupil shall be enlarged\nby looking; there never was so dark a night but a faithful and patient\neye, however small, might at last prevail over it),\u2014after all this, I\nsay, things began to take shape to our vision,\u2014if we may use this\nexpression where there was nothing but emptiness,\u2014and we obtained the\nlong-wished-for insight. Though we thought at first that it was a\nhopeless case, after several minutes\u2019 steady exercise of the divine\nfaculty, our prospects began decidedly to brighten, and we were ready\nto exclaim with the blind bard of \u201cParadise Lost and Regained,\u201d\u2014\n\n\u201cHail, holy Light! offspring of Heaven first born,\nOr of the Eternal co-eternal beam.\nMay I express thee unblamed?\u201d\n\n\nA little longer, and a chimney rushed red on our sight. In short, when\nour vision had grown familiar with the darkness, we discovered that\nthere were some stones and some loose wads of wool on the floor, and an\nempty fireplace at the further end; but it _was not_ supplied with\nmatches, or straw, or hay, that we could see, nor \u201caccommodated with a\nbench.\u201d Indeed, it was the wreck of all cosmical beauty there within.\n\nTurning our backs on the outward world, we thus looked through the\nknot-hole into the Humane house, into the very bowels of mercy; and for\nbread we found a stone. It was literally a great cry (of sea-mews\noutside), and a little wool. However, we were glad to sit outside,\nunder the lee of the Humane house, to escape the piercing wind; and\nthere we thought how cold is charity! how inhumane humanity! This,\nthen, is what charity hides! Virtues antique and far away with ever a\nrusty nail over the latch; and very difficult to keep in repair,\nwithal, it is so uncertain whether any will ever gain the beach near\nyou. So we shivered round about, not being able to get into it, ever\nand anon looking through the knot-hole into that night without a star,\nuntil we concluded that it was not a _humane_ house at all, but a\nsea-side box, now shut up. belonging to some of the family of Night or\nChaos, where they spent their summers by the sea, for the sake of the\nsea breeze, and that it was not proper for us to be prying into their\nconcerns.\n\nMy companion had declared before this that I had not a particle of\nsentiment, in rather absolute terms, to my astonishment; but I suspect\nhe meant that my legs did not ache just then, though I am not wholly a\nstranger to that sentiment. But I did not intend this for a sentimental\njourney.\n\n[Illustration: Herring River at Wellfleet]\n\n [1] We have no word in English to express the sound of many waves,\n dashing at once, whether gently or violently, \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03c5\u03c6\u03bb\u03bf\u03af\u03c3\u03b2\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 to the\n ear, and, in the ocean\u2019s gentle moods, an \u1f00\u03bd\u03ac\u03c1\u03b9\u03b8\u03bc\u03bf\u03bd \u03b3\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03bc\u03b1 to the\n eye.\n\n\n\n\nV\nTHE WELLFLEET OYSTERMAN\n\n\nHaving walked about eight miles since we struck the beach, and passed\nthe boundary between Wellfleet and Truro, a stone post in the sand,\u2014for\neven this sand comes under the jurisdiction of one town or another,\u2014we\nturned inland over barren hills and valleys, whither the sea, for some\nreason, did not follow us, and, tracing up a Hollow, discovered two or\nthree sober-looking houses within half a mile, uncommonly near the\neastern coast. Their garrets were apparently so full of chambers, that\ntheir roofs could hardly lie down straight, and we did not doubt that\nthere was room for us there. Houses near the sea are generally low and\nbroad. These were a story and a half high; but if you merely counted\nthe windows in their gable-ends, you would think that there were many\nstories more, or, at any rate, that the half-story was the only one\nthought worthy of being illustrated. The great number of windows in the\nends of the houses, and their irregularity in size and position, here\nand elsewhere on the Cape, struck us agreeably,\u2014as if each of the\nvarious occupants who had their _cunabula_ behind had punched a hole\nwhere his necessities required it, and, according to his size and\nstature, without regard to outside effect. There were windows for the\ngrown folks, and windows for the children,\u2014three or four apiece; as a\ncertain man had a large hole cut in his barn-door for the cat, and\nanother smaller one for the kitten. Sometimes they were so low under\nthe eaves that I thought they must have perforated the plate beam for\nanother apartment, and I noticed some which were triangular, to fit\nthat part more exactly. The ends of the houses had thus as many muzzles\nas a revolver, and, if the inhabitants have the same habit of staring\nout the windows that some of our neighbors have, a traveller must stand\na small chance with them.\n\nGenerally, the old-fashioned and unpainted houses on the Cape looked\nmore comfortable, as well as picturesque, than the modern and more\npretending ones, which were less in harmony with the scenery, and less\nfirmly planted.\n\n[Illustration: A characteristic gable with many windows]\n\nThese houses were on the shores of a chain of ponds, seven in number,\nthe source of a small stream called Herring River, which empties into\nthe Bay. There are many Herring Rivers on the Cape; they will, perhaps,\nbe more numerous than herrings soon. We knocked at the door of the\nfirst house, but its inhabitants were all gone away. In the meanwhile,\nwe saw the occupants of the next one looking out the window at us, and\nbefore we reached it an old woman came out and fastened the door of her\nbulkhead, and went in again. Nevertheless, we did not hesitate to knock\nat her door, when a grizzly-looking man appeared, whom we took to be\nsixty or seventy years old. He asked us, at first, suspiciously, where\nwe were from, and what our business was; to which we returned plain\nanswers.\n\n\u201cHow far is Concord from Boston?\u201d he inquired.\n\n\u201cTwenty miles by railroad.\u201d\n\n\u201cTwenty miles by railroad,\u201d he repeated.\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t you ever hear of Concord of Revolutionary fame?\u201d\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t I ever hear of Concord? Why, I heard the guns fire at the\nbattle of Bunker Hill. [They hear the sound of heavy cannon across the\nBay.] I am almost ninety; I am eighty-eight year old. I was fourteen\nyear old at the time of Concord Fight,\u2014and where were you then?\u201d\n\nWe were obliged to confess that we were not in the fight.\n\n\u201cWell, walk in, we\u2019ll leave it to the women,\u201d said he.\n\nSo we walked in, surprised, and sat down, an old woman taking our hats\nand bundles, and the old man continued, drawing up to the large,\nold-fashioned fireplace,\u2014\n\n\u201cI am a poor good-for-nothing crittur, as Isaiah says; I am all broken\ndown this year. I am under petticoat government here.\u201d\n\nThe family consisted of the old man, his wife, and his daughter, who\nappeared nearly as old as her mother, a fool, her son (a\nbrutish-looking, middle-aged man, with a prominent lower face, who was\nstanding by the hearth when we entered, but immediately went out), and\na little boy of ten.\n\nWhile my companion talked with the women, I talked with the old man.\nThey said that he was old and foolish, but he was evidently too knowing\nfor them.\n\n\u201cThese women,\u201d said he to me, \u201care both of them poor good-for-nothing\ncritturs. This one is my wife. I married her sixty-four years ago. She\nis eighty-four years old, and as deaf as an adder, and the other is not\nmuch better.\u201d\n\nHe thought well of the Bible, or at least he _spoke_ well, and did not\n_think_ ill, of it, for that would not have been prudent for a man of\nhis age. He said that he had read it attentively for many years, and he\nhad much of it at his tongue\u2019s end. He seemed deeply impressed with a\nsense of his own nothingness, and would repeatedly exclaim,\u2014\n\n\u201cI am a nothing. What I gather from my Bible is just this: that man is\na poor good-for-nothing crittur, and everything is just as God sees fit\nand disposes.\u201d\n\n\u201cMay I ask your name?\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he answered, \u201cI am not ashamed to tell my name. My name is\u2014\u2014. My\ngreat-grandfather came over from England and settled here.\u201d\n\nHe was an old Wellfleet oysterman, who had acquired a competency in\nthat business, and had sons still engaged in it.\n\nNearly all the oyster shops and stands in Massachusetts, I am told, are\nsupplied and kept by natives of Wellfleet, and a part of this town is\nstill called Billingsgate from the oysters having been formerly planted\nthere; but the native oysters are said to have died in 1770. Various\ncauses are assigned for this, such as a ground frost, the carcasses of\nblackfish kept to rot in the harbor, and the like, but the most common\naccount of the matter is,\u2014and I find that a similar superstition with\nregard to the disappearance of fishes exists almost everywhere,\u2014that\nwhen Wellfleet began to quarrel with the neighboring towns about the\nright to gather them, yellow specks appeared in them, and Providence\ncaused them to disappear. A few years ago sixty thousand bushels were\nannually brought from the South and planted in the harbor of Wellfleet\ntill they attained \u201cthe proper relish of Billingsgate\u201d; but now they\nare imported commonly full-grown, and laid down near their markets, at\nBoston and elsewhere, where the water, being a mixture of salt and\nfresh, suits them better. The business was said to be still good and\nimproving.\n\nThe old man said that the oysters were liable to freeze in the winter,\nif planted too high; but if it were not \u201cso cold as to strain their\neyes\u201d they were not injured. The inhabitants of New Brunswick have\nnoticed that \u201cice will not form over an oyster-bed, unless the cold is\nvery intense indeed, and when the bays are frozen over the oyster-beds\nare easily discovered by the water above them remaining unfrozen, or as\nthe French residents say, _deg\u00e8le_.\u201d Our host said that they kept them\nin cellars all winter.\n\n\u201cWithout anything to eat or drink?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cWithout anything to eat or drink,\u201d he answered.\n\n\u201cCan the oysters move?\u201d\n\n\u201cJust as much as my shoe.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: A Welfleet oysterman]\n\nBut when I caught him saying that they \u201cbedded themselves down in the\nsand, flat side up, round side down,\u201d I told him that my shoe could not\ndo that, without the aid of my foot in it; at which he said that they\nmerely settled down as they grew; if put down in a square they would be\nfound so; but the clam could move quite fast. I have since been told by\noystermen of Long Island, where the oyster is still indigenous and\nabundant, that they are found in large masses attached to the parent in\ntheir midst, and are so taken up with their tongs; in which case, they\nsay, the age of the young proves that there could have been no motion\nfor five or six years at least. And Buckland in his Curiosities of\nNatural History (page 50) says: \u201cAn oyster who has once taken up his\nposition and fixed himself when quite young can never make a change.\nOysters, nevertheless, that have not fixed themselves, but remain loose\nat the bottom of the sea, have the power of locomotion; they open their\nshells to their fullest extent, and then suddenly contracting them, the\nexpulsion of the water forwards gives a motion backwards. A fisherman\nat Guernsey told me that he had frequently seen oysters moving in this\nway.\u201d\n\nSome still entertain the question \u201cwhether the oyster was indigenous in\nMassachusetts Bay,\u201d and whether Wellfleet harbor was a \u201cnatural\nhabitat\u201d of this fish; but, to say nothing of the testimony of old\noystermen, which, I think, is quite conclusive, though the native\noyster may now be extinct there, I saw that their shells, opened by the\nIndians, were strewn all over the Cape. Indeed, the Cape was at first\nthickly settled by Indians on account of the abundance of these and\nother fish. We saw many traces of their occupancy after this, in Truro,\nnear Great Hollow, and at High-Head, near East Harbor River,\u2014oysters,\nclams, cockles, and other shells, mingled with ashes and the bones of\ndeer and other quadrupeds. I picked up half a dozen arrow-heads, and in\nan hour or two could have filled my pockets with them. The Indians\nlived about the edges of the swamps, then probably in some instances\nponds, for shelter and water. Moreover, Champlain in the edition of his\n\u201cVoyages\u201d printed in 1613, says that in the year 1606 he and\nPoitrincourt explored a harbor (Barnstable Harbor?) in the southerly\npart of what is now called Massachusetts Bay, in latitude 42\u00b0, about\nfive leagues south, one point west of _Cap Blanc_ (Cape Cod), and there\nthey found many good oysters, and they named it \u201c_le Port aux\nHuistres_\u201d (Oyster Harbor). In one edition of his map (1632), the _\u201cR.\naux Escailles_\u201d is drawn emptying into the same part of the bay, and on\nthe map \u201c_Novi Belgii_,\u201d in Ogilby\u2019s \u201cAmerica\u201d (1670), the words \u201c_Port\naux Huistres_\u201d are placed against the same place. Also William Wood,\nwho left New England in 1633, speaks, in his \u201cNew England\u2019s Prospect,\u201d\npublished in 1634, of \u201ca great oyster-bank\u201d in Charles River, and of\nanother in the Mistick, each of which obstructed the navigation of its\nriver. \u201cThe oysters,\u201d says he, \u201cbe great ones in form of a shoehorn;\nsome be a foot long; these breed on certain banks that are bare every\nspring tide. This fish without the shell is so big, that it must admit\nof a division before you can well get it into your mouth.\u201d Oysters are\nstill found there. (Also, see Thomas Morton\u2019s \u201cNew English Canaan,\u201d\npage 90.)\n\nOur host told us that the sea-clam, or hen, was not easily obtained; it\nwas raked up, but never on the Atlantic side, only cast ashore there in\nsmall quantities in storms. The fisherman sometimes wades in water\nseveral feet deep, and thrusts a pointed stick into the sand before\nhim. When this enters between the valves of a clam, he closes them on\nit, and is drawn out. It has been known to catch and hold coot and teal\nwhich were preying on it. I chanced to be on the bank of the Acushnet\nat New Bedford one day since this, watching some ducks, when a man\ninformed me that, having let out his young ducks to seek their food\namid the samphire (_Salicornia_) and other weeds along the river-side\nat low tide that morning, at length he noticed that one remained\nstationary, amid the weeds, something preventing it from following the\nothers, and going to it he found its foot tightly shut in a quahog\u2019s\nshell. He took up both together, carried them to his home, and his wife\nopening the shell with a knife released the duck and cooked the quahog.\nThe old man said that the great clams were good to eat, but that they\nalways took out a certain part which was poisonous, before they cooked\nthem. \u201cPeople said it would kill a cat.\u201d I did not tell him that I had\neaten a large one entire that afternoon, but began to think that I was\ntougher than a cat. He stated that pedlers came round there, and\nsometimes tried to sell the women folks a skimmer, but he told them\nthat their women had got a better skimmer than _they_ could make, in\nthe shell of their clams; it was shaped just right for this\npurpose.\u2014They call them \u201cskim-alls\u201d in some places. He also said that\nthe sun-squall was poisonous to handle, and when the sailors came\nacross it, they did not meddle with it, but heaved it out of their way.\nI told him that I had handled it that afternoon, and had felt no ill\neffects as yet. But he said it made the hands itch, especially if they\nhad previously been scratched, or if I put it into my bosom I should\nfind out what it was.\n\nHe informed us that no ice ever formed on the back side of the Cape, or\nnot more than once in a century, and but little snow lay there, it\nbeing either absorbed or blown or washed away. Sometimes in winter,\nwhen the tide was down, the beach was frozen, and afforded a hard road\nup the back side for some thirty miles, as smooth as a floor. One\nwinter when he was a boy, he and his father \u201ctook right out into the\nback side before daylight, and walked to Provincetown and back to\ndinner.\u201d\n\nWhen I asked what they did with all that barren-looking land, where I\nsaw so few cultivated fields,\u2014\u201cNothing,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cThen why fence your fields?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo keep the sand from blowing and covering up the whole.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe yellow sand,\u201d said he, \u201chas some life in it, but the white little\nor none.\u201d\n\nWhen, in answer to his questions, I told him that I was a surveyor, he\nsaid that they who surveyed his farm were accustomed, where the ground\nwas uneven, to loop up each chain as high as their elbows; that was the\nallowance they made, and he wished to know if I could tell him why they\ndid not come out according to his deed, or twice alike. He seemed to\nhave more respect for surveyors of the old school, which I did not\nwonder at. \u201cKing George the Third,\u201d said he, \u201claid out a road four rods\nwide and straight the whole length of the Cape,\u201d but where it was now\nhe could not tell.\n\nThis story of the surveyors reminded me of a Long-Islander, who once,\nwhen I had made ready to jump from the bow of his boat to the shore,\nand he thought that I underrated the distance and would fall\nshort,\u2014though I found afterward that he judged of the elasticity of my\njoints by his own,\u2014told me that when he came to a brook which he wanted\nto get over, he held up one leg, and then, if his foot appeared to\ncover any part of the opposite bank, he knew that he could jump it.\n\u201cWhy,\u201d I told him, \u201cto say nothing of the Mississippi, and other small\nwatery streams, I could blot out a star with my foot, but I would not\nengage to jump that distance,\u201d and asked how he knew when he had got\nhis leg at the right elevation. But he regarded his legs as no less\naccurate than a pair of screw dividers or an ordinary quadrant, and\nappeared to have a painful recollection of every degree and minute in\nthe arc which they described; and he would have had me believe that\nthere was a kind of hitch in his hip-joint which answered the purpose.\nI suggested that he should connect his two ankles by a string of the\nproper length, which should be the chord of an arc, measuring his\njumping ability on horizontal surfaces,\u2014assuming one leg to be a\nperpendicular to the plane of the horizon, which, however, may have\nbeen too bold an assumption in this case. Nevertheless, this was a kind\nof geometry in the legs which it interested me to hear of.\n\nOur host took pleasure in telling us the names of the ponds, most of\nwhich we could see from his windows, and making us repeat them after\nhim, to see if we had got them right. They were Gull Pond, the largest\nand a very handsome one, clear and deep, and more than a mile in\ncircumference, Newcomb\u2019s, Swett\u2019s, Slough, Horse-Leech, Round, and\nHerring Ponds, all connected at high water, if I do not mistake. The\ncoast-surveyors had come to him for their names, and he told them of\none which they had not detected. He said that they were not so high as\nformerly. There was an earthquake about four years before he was born,\nwhich cracked the pans of the ponds, which were of iron, and caused\nthem to settle. I did not remember to have read of this. Innumerable\ngulls used to resort to them; but the large gulls were now very scarce,\nfor, as he said, the English robbed their nests far in the north, where\nthey breed. He remembered well when gulls were taken in the gull-house,\nand when small birds were killed by means of a frying-pan and fire at\nnight. His father once lost a valuable horse from this cause. A party\nfrom Wellfleet having lighted their fire for this purpose, one dark\nnight, on Billingsgate Island, twenty horses which were pastured there,\nand this colt among them, being frightened by it, and endeavoring in\nthe dark to cross the passage which separated them from the neighboring\nbeach, and which was then fordable at low tide, were all swept out to\nsea and drowned. I ob-served that many horses were still turned out to\npasture all summer on the islands and beaches in Wellfleet, Eastham,\nand Orleans, as a kind of common. He also described the killing of what\nhe called \u201cwild hens\u201d here, after they had gone to roost in the woods,\nwhen he was a boy. Perhaps they were \u201cPrairie hens\u201d (pinnated grouse).\n\nHe liked the Beach-pea (_Lathyrus maritimus_), cooked green, as well as\nthe cultivated. He had seen it growing very abundantly in Newfoundland,\nwhere also the inhabitants ate them, but he had never been able to\nobtain any ripe for seed. We read, under the head of Chatham, that \u201cin\n1555, during a time of great scarcity, the people about Orford, in\nSussex (England) were preserved from perishing by eating the seeds of\nthis plant, which grew there in great abundance on the sea-coast. Cows,\nhorses, sheep, and goats eat it.\u201d But the writer who quoted this could\nnot learn that they had ever been used in Barnstable County.\n\nHe had been a voyager, then? O, he had been about the world in his day.\nHe once considered himself a pilot for all our coast; but now they had\nchanged the names so he might be bothered.\n\nHe gave us to taste what he called the Summer Sweeting, a pleasant\napple which he raised, and frequently grafted from, but had never seen\ngrowing elsewhere, except once,\u2014three trees on Newfoundland, or at the\nBay of Chaleur, I forget which, as he was sailing by. He was sure that\nhe could tell the tree at a distance.\n\nAt length the fool, whom my companion called the wizard, came in,\nmuttering between his teeth, \u201cDamn book-pedlers,\u2014all the time talking\nabout books. Better do something. Damn \u2019em. I\u2019ll shoot \u2019em. Got a\ndoctor down here. Damn him, I\u2019ll get a gun and shoot him\u201d; never once\nholding up his head. Whereat the old man stood up and said in a loud\nvoice, as if he was accustomed to command, and this was not the first\ntime he had been obliged to exert his authority there: \u201cJohn, go sit\ndown, mind your business,\u2014we\u2019ve heard you talk before,\u2014precious little\nyou\u2019ll do,\u2014your bark is worse than your bite.\u201d But, without minding,\nJohn muttered the same gibberish over again, and then sat down at the\ntable which the old folks had left. He ate all there was on it, and\nthen turned to the apples, which his aged mother was paring, that she\nmight give her guests some apple-sauce for breakfast, but she drew them\naway and sent him off.\n\n[Illustration: Welfleet]\n\nWhen I approached this house the next summer, over the desolate hills\nbetween it and the shore, which are worthy to have been the birthplace\nof Ossian, I saw the wizard in the midst of a cornfield on the\nhillside, but, as usual, he loomed so strangely, that I mistook him for\na scarecrow.\n\nThis was the merriest old man that we had ever seen, and one of the\nbest preserved. His style of conversation was coarse and plain enough\nto have suited Rabelais. He would have made a good Panurge. Or rather\nhe was a sober Silenus, and we were the boys Chromis and Mnasilus, who\nlistened to his story.\n\n\u201cNot by H\u00e6monian hills the Thracian bard.\nNor awful Ph\u0153bus was on Pindus heard\nWith deeper silence or with more regard.\u201d\n\n\nThere was a strange mingling of past and present in his conversation,\nfor he had lived under King George, and might have remembered when\nNapoleon and the moderns generally were born. He said that one day,\nwhen the troubles between the Colonies and the mother country first\nbroke out, as he, a boy of fifteen, was pitching hay out of a cart, one\nDoane, an old Tory, who was talking with his father, a good Whig, said\nto him, \u201cWhy, Uncle Bill, you might as well undertake to pitch that\npond into the ocean with a pitchfork, as for the Colonies to undertake\nto gain their independence.\u201d He remembered well General Washington, and\nhow he rode his horse along the streets of Boston, and he stood up to\nshow us how he looked.\n\n\u201cHe was a r\u2014a\u2014ther large and portly-looking man, a manly and\nresolute-looking officer, with a pretty good leg as he sat on his\nhorse.\u201d\u2014\u201cThere, I\u2019ll tell you, this was the way with Washington.\u201d Then\nhe jumped up again, and bowed gracefully to right and left, making show\nas if he were waving his hat. Said he, _\u201cThat_ was Washington.\u201d\n\nHe told us many anecdotes of the Revolution, and was much pleased when\nwe told him that we had read the same in history, and that his account\nagreed with the written.\n\n\u201cO,\u201d he said, \u201cI know, I know! I was a young fellow of sixteen, with my\nears wide open; and a fellow of that age, you know, is pretty wide\nawake, and likes to know everything that\u2019s going on. O, I know!\u201d\n\nHe told us the story of the wreck of the _Franklin_, which took place\nthere the previous spring: how a boy came to his house early in the\nmorning to know whose boat that was by the shore, for there was a\nvessel in distress, and he, being an old man, first ate his breakfast,\nand then walked over to the top of the hill by the shore, and sat down\nthere, having found a comfortable seat, to see the ship wrecked. She\nwas on the bar, only a quarter of a mile from him, and still nearer to\nthe men on the beach, who had got a boat ready, but could render no\nassistance on account of the breakers, for there was a pretty high sea\nrunning. There were the passengers all crowded together in the forward\npart of the ship, and some were getting out of the cabin windows and\nwere drawn on deck by the others.\n\n\u201cI saw the captain get out his boat,\u201d said he; \u201che had one little one;\nand then they jumped into it one after another, down as straight as an\narrow. I counted them. There were nine. One was a woman, and she jumped\nas straight as any of them. Then they shoved off. The sea took them\nback, one wave went over them, and when they came up there were six\nstill clinging to the boat; I counted them. The next wave turned the\nboat bottom upward, and emptied them all out. None of them ever came\nashore alive. There were the rest of them all crowded together on the\nforecastle, the other parts of the ship being under water. They had\nseen all that happened to the boat. At length a heavy sea separated the\nforecastle from the rest of the wreck, and set it inside of the worst\nbreaker, and the boat was able to reach them, and it saved all that\nwere left, but one woman.\u201d\n\nHe also told us of the steamer _Cambria\u2019s_ getting aground on his shore\na few months before we were there, and of her English passengers who\nroamed over his grounds, and who, he said, thought the prospect from\nthe high hill by the shore \u201cthe most delightsome they had ever seen,\u201d\nand also of the pranks which the ladies played with his scoop-net in\nthe ponds. He spoke of these travellers with their purses full of\nguineas, just as our provincial fathers used to speak of British bloods\nin the time of King George the Third.\n\n_Quid loquar?_ Why repeat what he told us?\n\n\u201cAut Scyllam Nisi, quam fama secuta est,\nCandida succinctam latrantibus inguina monstris,\nDulichias vex\u00e2sse rates, et gurgite in alto\nAh timidos nautas canibus lacer\u00e2sse marinis?\u201d\n\n\nIn the course of the evening I began to feel the potency of the clam\nwhich I had eaten, and I was obliged to confess to our host that I was\nno tougher than the cat he told of; but he answered, that he was a\nplain-spoken man, and he could tell me that it was all imagination. At\nany rate, it proved an emetic in my case, and I was made quite sick by\nit for a short time, while he laughed at my expense. I was pleased to\nread afterward, in Mourt\u2019s Relation of the landing of the Pilgrims in\nProvincetown Harbor, these words: \u201cWe found great muscles (the old\neditor says that they were undoubtedly sea-clams) and very fat and full\nof sea-pearl; but we could not eat them, for they made us all sick that\ndid eat, as well sailors as passengers, ... but they were soon well\nagain.\u201d It brought me nearer to the Pilgrims to be thus reminded by a\nsimilar experience that I was so like them. Moreover, it was a valuable\nconfirmation of their story, and I am prepared now to believe every\nword of Mourt\u2019s Relation. I was also pleased to find that man and the\nclam lay still at the same angle to one another. But I did not notice\nsea-pearl. Like Cleopatra, I must have swallowed it. I have since dug\nthese clams on a flat in the Bay and observed them. They could squirt\nfull ten feet before the wind, as appeared by the marks of the drops on\nthe sand.\n\n\u201cNow I\u2019m going to ask you a question,\u201d said the old man, \u201cand I don\u2019t\nknow as you can tell me; but you are a learned man, and I never had any\nlearning, only what I got by natur.\u201d\u2014It was in vain that we reminded\nhim that he could quote Josephus to our confusion.\u2014\u201cI\u2019ve thought, if I\never met a learned man I should like to ask him this question. Can you\ntell me how _Axy_ is spelt, and what it means? _Axy_,\u201d says he;\n\u201cthere\u2019s a girl over here is named _Axy_. Now what is it? What does it\nmean? Is it Scripture? I\u2019ve read my Bible twenty-five years over and\nover, and I never came across it.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you read it twenty-five years for this object.\u2019\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cWell, _how_ is it spelt? Wife, how is it spelt?\u201d She said: \u201cIt is in\nthe Bible; I\u2019ve seen it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, how do you spell it?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know. A c h, ach, s e h, seh,\u2014Achseh.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes that spell Axy? Well, do _you_ know what it means?\u201d asked he,\nturning to me.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d I replied, \u201cI never heard the sound before.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere was a schoolmaster down here once, and they asked him what it\nmeant, and he said it had no more meaning than a bean-pole.\u201d\n\nI told him that I held the same opinion with the schoolmaster. I had\nbeen a schoolmaster myself, and had had strange names to deal with. I\nalso heard of such names as Zoleth, Beriah, Amaziah, Bethuel, and\nShearjashub, hereabouts.\n\nAt length the little boy, who had a seat quite in the chimney-corner,\ntook off his stockings and shoes, warmed his feet, and having had his\nsore leg freshly salved, went off to bed; then the fool made bare his\nknotty-looking feet and legs, and followed him; and finally the old man\nexposed his calves also to our gaze. We had never had the good fortune\nto see an old man\u2019s legs before, and were surprised to find them fair\nand plump as an infant\u2019s, and we thought that he took a pride in\nexhibiting them. He then proceeded to make preparations for retiring,\ndiscoursing meanwhile with Panurgic plainness of speech on the ills to\nwhich old humanity is subject. We were a rare haul for him. He could\ncommonly get none but ministers to talk to, though sometimes ten of\nthem at once, and he was glad to meet some of the laity at leisure. The\nevening was not long enough for him. As I had been sick, the old lady\nasked if I would not go to bed,\u2014it was getting late for old people; but\nthe old man, who had not yet done his stories, said, \u201cYou ain\u2019t\nparticular, are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cO, no,\u201d said I, \u201cI am in no hurry. I believe I have weathered the Clam\ncape.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey are good,\u201d said he; \u201cI wish I had some of them now.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey never hurt me,\u201d said the old lady.\n\n\u201cBut then you took out the part that killed a cat,\u201d said I.\n\nAt last we cut him short in the midst of his stories, which he promised\nto resume in the morning. Yet, after all, one of the old ladies who\ncame into our room in the night to fasten the fire-board, which\nrattled, as she went out took the precaution to fasten us in. Old women\nare by nature more suspicious than old men. However, the winds howled\naround the house, and made the fire-boards as well as the casements\nrattle well that night. It was probably a windy night for any locality,\nbut we could not distinguish the roar which was proper to the ocean\nfrom that which was due to the wind alone.\n\nThe sounds which the ocean makes must be very significant and\ninteresting to those who live near it. When I was leaving the shore at\nthis place the next summer, and had got a quarter of a mile distant,\nascending a hill, I was startled by a sudden, loud sound from the sea,\nas if a large steamer were letting off steam by the shore, so that I\ncaught my breath and felt my blood run cold for an instant, and I\nturned about, expecting to see one of the Atlantic steamers thus far\nout of her course, but there was nothing unusual to be seen. There was\na low bank at the entrance of the Hollow, between me and the ocean, and\nsuspecting that I might have risen into another stratum of air in\nascending the hill,\u2014which had wafted to me only the ordinary roar of\nthe sea,\u2014I immediately descended again, to see if I lost _hearing_ of\nit; but, without regard to my ascending or descending, it died away in\na minute or two, and yet there was scarcely any wind all the while. The\nold man said that this was what they called the \u201crut,\u201d a peculiar roar\nof the sea before the wind changes, which, however, he could not\naccount for. He thought that he could tell all about the weather from\nthe sounds which the sea made.\n\nOld Josselyn, who came to New England in 1638, has it among his\nweather-signs, that \u201cthe resounding of the sea from the shore, and\nmurmuring of the winds in the woods, without apparent wind, sheweth\nwind to follow.\u201d\n\nBeing on another part of the coast one night since this, I heard the\nroar of the surf a mile distant, and the inhabitants said it was a sign\nthat the wind would work round east, and we should have rainy weather.\nThe ocean was heaped up somewhere at the eastward, and this roar was\noccasioned by its effort to preserve its equilibrium, the wave reaching\nthe shore before the wind. Also the captain of a packet between this\ncountry and England told me that he sometimes met with a wave on the\nAtlantic coming against the wind, perhaps in a calm sea, which\nindicated that at a distance the wind was blowing from an opposite\nquarter, but the undulation had travelled faster than it. Sailors tell\nof \u201ctide-rips\u201d and \u201cground-swells,\u201d which they suppose to have been\noccasioned by hurricanes and earthquakes, and to have travelled many\nhundred, and sometimes even two or three thousand miles.\n\n[Illustration: Hunting for a Leak]\n\nBefore sunrise the next morning they let us out again, and I ran over\nto the beach to see the sun come out of the ocean. The old woman of\neighty-four winters was already out in the cold morning wind,\nbareheaded, tripping about like a young girl, and driving up the cow to\nmilk. She got the breakfast with despatch, and without noise or bustle;\nand meanwhile the old man resumed his stories, standing before us, who\nwere sitting, with his back to the chimney, and ejecting his tobacco\njuice right and left into the fire behind him, without regard to the\nvarious dishes which were there preparing. At breakfast we had eels,\nbuttermilk cake, cold bread, green beans, doughnuts, and tea. The old\nman talked a steady stream; and when his wife told him he had better\neat his breakfast, he said: \u201cDon\u2019t hurry me; I have lived too long to\nbe hurried.\u201d I ate of the apple-sauce and the doughnuts, which I\nthought had sustained the least detriment from the old man\u2019s shots, but\nmy companion refused the apple-sauce, and ate of the hot cake and green\nbeans, which had appeared to him to occupy the safest part of the\nhearth. But on comparing notes afterward, I told him that the\nbuttermilk cake was particularly exposed, and I saw how it suffered\nrepeatedly, and therefore I avoided it; but he declared that, however\nthat might be, he witnessed that the apple-sauce was seriously injured,\nand had therefore declined that. After breakfast we looked at his\nclock, which was out of order, and oiled it with some \u201chen\u2019s grease,\u201d\nfor want of sweet oil, for he scarcely could believe that we were not\ntinkers or pedlers; meanwhile he told a story about visions, which had\nreference to a crack in the clock-case made by frost one night. He was\ncurious to know to what religious sect we belonged. He said that he had\nbeen to hear thirteen kinds of preaching in one month, when he was\nyoung, but he did not join any of them,\u2014he stuck to his Bible. There\nwas nothing like any of them in his Bible. While I was shaving in the\nnext room, I heard him ask my companion to what sect he belonged, to\nwhich he answered:\u2014\n\n\u201cO, I belong to the Universal Brotherhood.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d he asked, \u201cSons o\u2019 Temperance?\u201d\n\nFinally, filling our pockets with doughnuts, which he was pleased to\nfind that we called by the same name that he did, and paying for our\nentertainment, we took our departure; but he followed us out of doors,\nand made us tell him the names of the vegetables which he had raised\nfrom seeds that came out of the _Franklin_. They were cabbage,\nbroccoli, and parsley. As I had asked him the names of so many things,\nhe tried me in turn with all the plants which grew in his garden, both\nwild and cultivated. It was about half an acre, which he cultivated\nwholly himself. Besides the common garden vegetables, there were\nYellow-Dock, Lemon Balm, Hyssop, Gill-go-over-the-ground. Mouse-ear,\nChick-weed, Roman Wormwood, Elecampane, and other plants. As we stood\nthere, I saw a fish-hawk stoop to pick a fish out of his pond.\n\n\u201cThere,\u201d said I, \u201che has got a fish.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said the old man, who was looking all the while, but could see\nnothing, \u201che didn\u2019t dive, he just wet his claws.\u201d\n\nAnd, sure enough, he did not this time, though it is said that they\noften do, but he merely stooped low enough to pick him out with his\ntalons; but as he bore his shining prey over the bushes, it fell to the\nground, and we did not see that he recovered it. That is not their\npractice.\n\nThus, having had another crack with the old man, he standing bareheaded\nunder the eaves, he directed us \u201cathwart the fields,\u201d and we took to\nthe beach again for another day, it being now late in the morning.\n\nIt was but a day or two after this that the safe of the Provincetown\nBank was broken open and robbed by two men from the interior, and we\nlearned that our hospitable entertainers did at least transiently\nharbor the suspicion that we were the men.\n\n\n\n\nVI\nTHE BEACH AGAIN\n\n\nOur way to the high sand-bank, which I have described as extending all\nalong the coast, led, as usual, through patches of Bayberry bushes\nwhich straggled into the sand. This, next to the Shrub-oak, was perhaps\nthe most common shrub thereabouts. I was much attracted by its\nodoriferous leaves and small gray berries which are clustered about the\nshort twigs, just below the last year\u2019s growth. I know of but two\nbushes in Concord, and they, being staminate plants, do not bear fruit.\nThe berries gave it a venerable appearance, and they smelled quite\nspicy, like small confectionery. Robert Beverley, in his \u201cHistory of\nVirginia,\u201d published in 1705, states that \u201cat the mouth of their\nrivers, and all along upon the sea and bay, and near many of their\ncreeks and swamps, grows the myrtle, bearing a berry, of which they\nmake a hard brittle wax, of a curious green color, which by refining\nbecomes almost transparent. Of this they make candles, which are never\ngreasy to the touch nor melt with lying in the hottest weather; neither\ndoes the snuff of these ever offend the smell, like that of a tallow\ncandle; but, instead of being disagreeable, if an accident puts a\ncandle out, it yields a pleasant fragrancy to all that are in the room;\ninsomuch that nice people often put them out on purpose to have the\nincense of the expiring snuff. The melting of these berries is said to\nhave been first found out by a surgeon in New England, who performed\nwonderful things with a salve made of them.\u201d From the abundance of\nberries still hanging on the bushes, we judged that the inhabitants did\nnot generally collect them for tallow, though we had seen a piece in\nthe house we had just left. I have since made some tallow myself.\nHolding a basket beneath the bare twigs in April, I rubbed them\ntogether between my hands and thus gathered about a quart in twenty\nminutes, to which were added enough to make three pints, and I might\nhave gathered them much faster with a suitable rake and a large shallow\nbasket. They have little prominences like those of an orange all\ncreased in tallow, which also fills the interstices down to the stone.\nThe oily part rose to the top, making it look like a savory black\nbroth, which smelled much like balm or other herb tea. You let it cool,\nthen skim off the tallow from the surface, melt this again and strain\nit. I got about a quarter of a pound weight from my three pints, and\nmore yet remained within the berries. A small portion cooled in the\nform of small flattish hemispheres, like crystallizations, the size of\na kernel of corn (nuggets I called them as I picked them out from amid\nthe berries), Loudon says, that \u201ccultivated trees are said to yield\nmore wax than those that are found wild.\u201d (See Duplessy, _V\u00e9getaux\nR\u00e9sineux_, Vol. II. p. 60.) If you get any pitch on your hands in the\npine-woods you have only to rub some of these berries between your\nhands to start it off. But the ocean was the grand fact there, which\nmade us forget both bay berries and men.\n\nTo-day the air was beautifully clear, and the sea no longer dark and\nstormy, though the waves still broke with foam along the beach, but\nsparkling and full of life. Already that morning I had seen the day\nbreak over the sea as if it came out of its bosom:\u2014\n\n\u201cThe saffron-robed Dawn rose in haste from the streams\nOf Ocean, that she might bring light to immortals and to mortals.\u201d\n\n\nThe sun rose visibly at such a distance over the sea that the\ncloud-bank in the horizon, which at first concealed him, was not\nperceptible until he had risen high behind it, and plainly broke and\ndispersed it, like an arrow. But as yet I looked at him as rising over\nland, and could not, without an effort, realize that he was rising over\nthe sea. Already I saw some vessels on the horizon, which had rounded\nthe Cape in the night, and were now well on their watery way to other\nlands.\n\nWe struck the beach again in the south part of Truro. In the early part\nof the day, while it was flood tide and the beach was narrow and soft,\nwe walked on the bank, which was very high here, but not so level as\nthe day before, being more interrupted by slight hollows. The author of\nthe Description of the Eastern Coast says of this part, that \u201cthe bank\nis very high and steep. From the edge of it west, there is a strip of\nsand a hundred yards in breadth. Then succeeds low brushwood, a quarter\nof a mile wide, and almost impassable. After which comes a thick,\nperplexing forest, in which not a house is to be discovered. Seamen,\ntherefore, though the distance between these two hollows (Newcomb\u2019s and\nBrush Hollows) is great, must not attempt to enter the wood, as in a\nsnowstorm they must undoubtedly perish.\u201d This is still a true\ndescription of the country, except that there is not much high wood\nleft.\n\n[Illustration: Truro\u2014Starting on a voyage]\n\nThere were many vessels, like gulls, skimming over the surface of the\nsea, now half concealed in its troughs, their dolphin-strikers\nploughing the water, now tossed on the top of the billows. One, a bark\nstanding down parallel with the coast, suddenly furled her sails, came\nto anchor, and swung round in the wind, near us, only half a mile from\nthe shore. At first we thought that her captain wished to communicate\nwith us, and perhaps we did not regard the signal of distress, which a\nmariner would have understood, and he cursed us for cold-hearted\nwreckers who turned our backs on him. For hours we could still see her\nanchored there behind us, and we wondered how she could afford to\nloiter so long in her course. Or was she a smuggler who had chosen that\nwild beach to land her cargo on? Or did they wish to catch fish, or\npaint their vessel? Erelong other barks, and brigs, and schooners,\nwhich had in the mean while doubled the Cape, sailed by her in the\nsmacking breeze, and our consciences were relieved. Some of these\nvessels lagged behind, while others steadily went ahead. We narrowly\nwatched their rig, and the cut of their jibs, and how they walked the\nwater, for there was all the difference between them that there is\nbetween living creatures. But we wondered that they should be\nremembering Boston and New York and Liverpool, steering for them, out\nthere; as if the sailor might forget his peddling business on such a\ngrand highway. They had perchance brought oranges from the Western\nIsles; and were they carrying back the peel? We might as well transport\nour old traps across the ocean of eternity. Is _that_ but another\n\u201ctrading-flood,\u201d with its blessed isles? Is Heaven such a harbor as the\nLiverpool docks?\n\nStill held on without a break, the inland barrens and shrubbery, the\ndesert and the high sand bank with its even slope, the broad white\nbeach, the breakers, the green water on the bar, and the Atlantic\nOcean; and we traversed with delight new reaches of the shore; we took\nanother lesson in sea-horses\u2019 manes and sea-cows\u2019 tails, in sea-jellies\nand sea-clams, with our new-gained experience. The sea ran hardly less\nthan the day before. It seemed with every wave to be subsiding, because\nsuch was our expectation, and yet when hours had elapsed we could see\nno difference. But there it was, balancing itself, the restless ocean\nby our side, lurching in its gait. Each wave left the sand all braided\nor woven, as it were, with a coarse woof and warp, and a distinct\nraised edge to its rapid work. We made no haste, since we wished to see\nthe ocean at our leisure; and indeed that soft sand was no place in\nwhich to be in a hurry, for one mile there was as good as two\nelsewhere. Besides, we were obliged frequently to empty our shoes of\nthe sand which one took in in climbing or descending the bank.\n\nAs we were walking close to the water\u2019s edge this morning we turned\nround, by chance, and saw a large black object which the waves had just\ncast up on the beach behind us, yet too far off for us to distinguish\nwhat it was; and when we were about to return to it, two men came\nrunning from the bank, where no human beings had appeared before, as if\nthey had come out of the sand, in order to save it before another wave\ntook it. As we approached, it took successively the form of a huge\nfish, a drowned man, a sail or a net, and finally of a mass of\ntow-cloth, part of the cargo of the _Franklin_, which the men loaded\ninto a cart.\n\nObjects on the beach, whether men or inanimate things, look not only\nexceedingly grotesque, but much larger and more wonderful than they\nactually are. Lately, when approaching the seashore several degrees\nsouth of this, I saw before me, seemingly half a mile distant, what\nappeared like bold and rugged cliffs on the beach, fifteen feet high,\nand whitened by the sun and waves; but after a few steps it proved to\nbe low heaps of rags,\u2014part of the cargo of a wrecked vessel,\u2014scarcely\nmore than a foot in height. Once also it was my business to go in\nsearch of the relics of a human body, mangled by sharks, which had just\nbeen cast up, a week after a wreck, having got the direction from a\nlight-house: I should find it a mile or two distant over the sand, a\ndozen rods from the water, covered with a cloth, by a stick stuck up. I\nexpected that I must look very narrowly to find so small an object, but\nthe sandy beach, half a mile wide, and stretching farther than the eye\ncould reach, was so perfectly smooth and bare, and the mirage toward\nthe sea so magnifying, that when I was half a mile distant the\ninsignificant sliver which marked the spot looked like a bleached spar,\nand the relics were as conspicuous as if they lay in state on that\nsandy plain, or a generation had labored to pile up their cairn there.\nClose at hand they were simply some bones with a little flesh adhering\nto them, in fact, only a slight inequality in the sweep of the shore.\nThere was nothing at all remarkable about them, and they were\nsingularly inoffensive both to the senses and the imagination. But as I\nstood there they grew more and more imposing. They were alone with the\nbeach and the sea, whose hollow roar seemed addressed to them, and I\nwas impressed as if there was an understanding between them and the\nocean which necessarily left me out, with my snivelling sympathies.\nThat dead body had taken possession of the shore, and reigned over it\nas no living one, could, in the name of a certain majesty which\nbelonged to it.\n\nWe afterward saw many small pieces of tow-cloth washed up, and I learn\nthat it continued to be found in good condition, even as late as\nNovember in that year, half a dozen bolts at a time.\n\nWe eagerly filled our pockets with the smooth round pebbles which in\nsome places, even here, were thinly sprinkled over the sand, together\nwith flat circular shells (_Scutell\u00e6?_); but, as we had read, when they\nwere dry they had lost their beauty, and at each sitting we emptied our\npockets again of the least remarkable, until our collection was well\nculled. Every material was rolled into the pebble form by the waves;\nnot only stones of various kinds, but the hard coal which some vessel\nhad dropped, bits of glass, and in one instance a mass of peat three\nfeet long, where there was nothing like it to be seen for many miles.\nAll the great rivers of the globe are annually, if not constantly,\ndischarging great quantities of lumber, which drifts to distant shores.\nI have also seen very perfect pebbles of brick, and bars of Castile\nsoap from a wreck rolled into perfect cylinders, and still spirally\nstreaked with red, like a barber\u2019s pole. When a cargo of rags is washed\nashore, every old pocket and bag-like recess will be filled to bursting\nwith sand by being rolled on the beach; and on one occasion, the\npockets in the clothing of the wrecked being thus puffed up, even after\nthey had been ripped open by wreckers, deluded me into the hope of\nidentifying them by the contents. A pair of gloves looked exactly as if\nfilled by a hand. The water in such clothing is soon wrung out and\nevaporated, but the sand, which works itself into every seam, is not so\neasily got rid of. Sponges, which are picked up on the shore, as is\nwell known, retain some of the sand of the beach to the latest day, in\nspite of every effort to extract it.\n\nI found one stone on the top of the bank, of a dark gray color, shaped\nexactly like a giant clam (_Mactra solidissima_), and of the same size;\nand, what was more remarkable, one-half of the outside had shelled off\nand lay near it, of the same form and depth with one of the valves of\nthis clam, while the other half was loose, leaving a solid core of a\ndarker color within it. I afterward saw a stone resembling a razor\nclam, but it was a solid one. It appeared as if the stone, in the\nprocess of formation, had filled the mould which a clam-shell\nfurnished; or the same law that shaped the clam had made a clam of\nstone. Dead clams, with shells full of sand, are called sand clams.\nThere were many of the large clamshells filled with sand; and sometimes\none valve was separately filled exactly even, as if it had been heaped\nand then scraped. Even among the many small stones on the top of the\nbank, I found one arrow-head.\n\nBeside the giant clam and barnacles, we found on the shore a small clam\n(_Mesodesma arctata_), which I dug with my hands in numbers on the\nbars, and which is sometimes eaten by the inhabitants, in the absence\nof the _Mya arenaria_, on this side. Most of their empty shells had\nbeen perforated by some foe.\u2014Also, the\n\n_Astarte castanea_.\n\nThe Edible Mussel (_Mytilus edulis_) on the few rocks, and washed up in\ncurious bunches of forty or fifty, held together by its rope-like\n_byssus_.\n\nThe Scollop Shell (_Pecten concentricus_), used for card-racks and\npin-cushions.\n\nCockles, or Cuckoos (_Natica heros_), and their remarkable _nidus_,\ncalled \u201csand-circle,\u201d looking like the top of a stone jug without the\nstopple, and broken on one side, or like a flaring dickey made of\nsand-paper. Also,\n\n_Cancellaria Couthouyi_ (?), and\n\nPeriwinkles (?) (_Fusus decemcostatus_).\n\nWe afterward saw some other kinds on the Bay-side. Gould states that\nthis Cape \u201chas hitherto proved a barrier to the migrations of many\nspecies of Mollusca.\u201d\u2014\u201cOf the one hundred and ninety-seven species\n[which he described in 1840 as belonging to Massachusetts],\neighty-three do not pass to the South shore, and fifty are not found on\nthe North shore of the Cape.\u201d\n\nAmong Crustacea, there were the shells of Crabs and Lobsters, often\nbleached quite white high up the beach; Sea or Beach Fleas\n(_Amphipoda_); and the cases of the Horse-shoe Crab, or Saucepan Fish\n(_Limulus Polyphemus_), of which we saw many alive on the Bay side,\nwhere they feed pigs on them. Their tails were used as arrow-heads by\nthe Indians.\n\nOf Radiata, there were the Sea Chestnut or Egg (_Echinus granulatus_),\ncommonly divested of its spines; flat circular shells (_Scutella\nparma?_) covered with chocolate-colored spines, but becoming smooth and\nwhite, with five petal-like figures; a few Star-fishes or Five-fingers\n(_Asterias rubens_); and Sun-fishes or Sea-jellies (_Aureli\u00e6_).\n\nThere was also at least one species of Sponge.\n\nThe plants which I noticed here and there on the pure sandy shelf,\nbetween the ordinary high-water mark and the foot of the bank, were Sea\nRocket (_Cakile Americana_), Saltwort (_Salsola kali_), Sea Sandwort\n(_Honkenya peploides_), Sea Burdock (_Xanthium echinatum_), Sea-side\nSpurge (_Euphorbia poylgonifolia_); also, Beach Grass (_Arundo,\nPsamma_, or _Calamagrostis arenaria_), Sea-side Golden-rod (_Solidago\nsempervirens_), and the Beach Pea (_Lathyrus maritimus_).\n\nSometimes we helped a wrecker turn over a larger log than usual, or we\namused ourselves with rolling stones down the bank, but we rarely could\nmake one reach the water, the beach was so soft and wide; or we bathed\nin some shallow within a bar, where the sea covered us with sand at\nevery flux, though it was quite cold and windy. The ocean there is\ncommonly but a tantalizing prospect in hot weather, for with all that\nwater before you, there is, as we were afterward told, no bathing on\nthe Atlantic side, on account of the undertow and the rumor of sharks.\nAt the lighthouse both in Eastham and Truro, the only houses quite on\nthe shore, they declared, the next year, that they would not bathe\nthere \u201cfor any sum,\u201d for they sometimes saw the sharks tossed up and\nquiver for a moment on the sand. Others laughed at these stories, but\nperhaps they could afford to because they never bathed anywhere. One\nold wrecker told us that he killed a regular man-eating shark fourteen\nfeet long, and hauled him out with his oxen, where we had bathed; and\nanother, that his father caught a smaller one of the same kind that was\nstranded there, by standing him up on his snout so that the waves could\nnot take him. They will tell you tough stories of sharks all over the\nCape, which I do not presume to doubt utterly,\u2014how they will sometimes\nupset a boat, or tear it in pieces, to get at the man in it. I can\neasily believe in the undertow, but I have no doubt that one shark in a\ndozen years is enough to keep up the reputation of a beach a hundred\nmiles long. I should add, however, that in July we walked on the bank\nhere a quarter of a mile parallel with a fish about six feet in length,\npossibly a shark, which was prowling slowly along within two rods of\nthe shore. It was of a pale brown color, singularly film-like and\nindistinct in the water, as if all nature abetted this child of ocean,\nand showed many darker transverse bars or rings whenever it came to the\nsurface. It is well known that different fishes even of the same\nspecies are colored by the water they inhabit. We saw it go into a\nlittle cove or bathing-tub, where we had just been bathing, where the\nwater was only four or five feet deep at that time, and after exploring\nit go slowly out again; but we continued to bathe there, only observing\nfirst from the bank if the cove was preoccupied. We thought that the\nwater was fuller of life, more aerated perhaps than that of the Bay,\nlike soda-water, for we were as particular as young salmon, and the\nexpectation of encountering a shark did not subtract anything from its\nlife-giving qualities.\n\nSometimes we sat on the wet beach and watched the beach birds,\nsand-pipers, and others, trotting along close to each wave, and waiting\nfor the sea to cast up their breakfast. The former (_Charadrius\nmelodus_) ran with great rapidity and then stood stock still remarkably\nerect and hardly to be distinguished from the beach. The wet sand was\ncovered with small skipping Sea Fleas, which apparently make a part of\ntheir food. These last are the little scavengers of the beach, and are\nso numerous that they will devour large fishes, which have been cast\nup, in a very short time. One little bird not larger than a sparrow,\u2014it\nmay have been a Phalarope,\u2014would alight on the turbulent surface where\nthe breakers were five or six feet high, and float buoyantly there like\na duck, cunningly taking to its wings and lifting itself a few feet\nthrough the air over the foaming crest of each breaker, but sometimes\noutriding safely a considerable billow which hid it some seconds, when\nits instinct told it that it would not break. It was a little creature\nthus to sport with the ocean, but it was as perfect a success in its\nway as the breakers in theirs. There was also an almost uninterrupted\nline of coots rising and falling with the waves, a few rods from the\nshore, the whole length of the Cape. They made as constant a part of\nthe ocean\u2019s border as the pads or pickerel-weed do of that of a pond.\nWe read the following as to the Storm Petrel (_Thalassidroma\nWilsonii_), which is seen in the Bay as well as on the outside. \u201cThe\nfeathers on the breast of the Storm Petrel are, like those of all\nswimming birds, water-proof; but substances not susceptible of being\nwetted with water are, for that very reason, the best fitted for\ncollecting oil from its surface. That function is performed by the\nfeathers on the breast of the Storm Petrels as they touch on the\nsurface; and though that may not be the only way in which they procure\ntheir food, it is certainly that in which they obtain great part of it.\nThey dash along till they have loaded their feathers and then they\npause upon the wave and remove the oil with their bills.\u201d\n\nThus we kept on along the gently curving shore, seeing two or three\nmiles ahead at once,\u2014along this ocean side-walk, where there was none\nto turn out for, with the middle of the road the highway of nations on\nour right, and the sand cliffs of the Cape on our left. We saw this\nforenoon a part of the wreck of a vessel, probably the _Franklin_, a\nlarge piece fifteen feet square, and still freshly painted. With a\ngrapple and a line we could have saved it, for the waves repeatedly\nwashed it within cast, but they as often took it back. It would have\nbeen a lucky haul for some poor wrecker, for I have been told that one\nman who paid three or four dollars for a part of the wreck of that\nvessel, sold fifty or sixty dollars\u2019 worth of iron out of it. Another,\nthe same who picked up the Captain\u2019s valise with the memorable letter\nin it, showed me, growing in his garden, many pear and plum trees which\nwashed ashore from her, all nicely tied up and labelled, and he said\nthat he might have got five hundred dollars\u2019 worth; for a Mr. Bell was\nimporting the nucleus of a nursery to be established near Boston. His\nturnip-seed came from the same source. Also valuable spars from the\nsame vessel and from the _Cactus_ lay in his yard. In short the\ninhabitants visit the beach to see what they have caught as regularly\nas a fisherman his weir or a lumberer his boom; the Cape is their boom.\nI heard of one who had recently picked up twenty barrels of apples in\ngood condition, probably a part of a deck load thrown over in a storm.\n\nThough there are wreck-masters appointed to look after valuable\nproperty which must be advertised, yet undoubtedly a great deal of\nvalue is secretly carried off. But are we not all wreckers contriving\nthat some treasure may be washed up on our beach, that we may secure\nit, and do we not infer the habits of these Nauset and Barnegat\nwreckers from the common modes of getting a living?\n\nThe sea, vast and wild as it is, bears thus the waste and wrecks of\nhuman art to its remotest shore. There is no telling what it may not\nvomit up. It lets nothing lie; not even the giant clams which cling to\nits bottom. It is still heaving up the tow-cloth of the _Franklin_, and\nperhaps a piece of some old pirate\u2019s ship, wrecked more than a hundred\nyears ago, comes ashore to-day. Some years since, when a vessel was\nwrecked here which had nutmegs in her cargo, they were strewn all along\nthe beach, and for a considerable time were not spoiled by the salt\nwater. Soon afterward, a fisherman caught a cod which was full of them.\nWhy, then, might not the Spice-Islanders shake their nutmeg trees into\nthe ocean, and let all nations who stand in need of them pick them up?\nHowever, after a year, I found that the nutmegs from the _Franklin_ had\nbecome soft.\n\nYou might make a curious list of articles which fishes have\nswallowed,\u2014sailors\u2019 open clasp-knives, and bright tin snuff-boxes, not\nknowing what was in them,\u2014and jugs, and jewels, and Jonah. The other\nday I came across the following scrap in a newspaper.\n\n\u201cA Religious Fish.\u2014A short time ago, mine host Stewart, of the Denton\nHotel, purchased a rock-fish, weighing about sixty pounds. On opening\nit he found in it a certificate of membership of the M. E. Church,\nwhich we read as follows:\u2014\n\n                                    Member Methodist E. Church. Founded\n                                    A. D. 1784. Quarterly Ticket. 18\n                                    Minister.\n\n\u2018For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a\nfar more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.\u2019\u20142 Cor. iv. 17.\n\n\n\u2018O what are all my sufferings here,\n    If, Lord, thou count me meet\nWith that enraptured host t\u2019 appear,\n    And worship at thy feet!\u2019\n\n\n\u201cThe paper was of course in a crumpled and wet condition, but on\nexposing it to the sun, and ironing the kinks out of it, it became\nquite legible.\u2014_Denton_ (_Md._) _Journal_.\u201d\n\nFrom time to time we saved a wreck ourselves, a box or barrel, and set\nit on its end, and appropriated it with crossed sticks; and it will lie\nthere perhaps, respected by brother wreckers, until some more violent\nstorm shall take it, really lost to man until wrecked again. We also\nsaved, at the cost of wet feet only, a valuable cord and buoy, part of\na seine, with which the sea was playing, for it seemed ungracious to\nrefuse the least gift which so great a personage offered you. We\nbrought this home and still use it for a garden line. I picked up a\nbottle half buried in the wet sand, covered with barnacles, but\nstoppled tight, and half full of red ale, which still smacked of\njuniper,\u2014all that remained I fancied from the wreck of a rowdy\nworld,\u2014that great salt sea on the one hand, and this little sea of ale\non the other, preserving their separate characters. What if it could\ntell us its adventures over countless ocean waves! Man would not be man\nthrough such ordeals as it had passed. But as I poured it slowly out on\nto the sand, it seemed to me that man himself was like a half-emptied\nbottle of pale ale, which Time had drunk so far, yet stoppled tight for\na while, and drifting about in the ocean of circumstances; but destined\nerelong to mingle with the surrounding waves, or be spilled amid the\nsands of a distant shore.\n\nIn the summer I saw two men fishing for Bass hereabouts. Their bait was\na bullfrog, or several small frogs in a bunch, for want of squid. They\nfollowed a retiring wave and whirling their lines round and round their\nheads with increasing rapidity, threw them as far as they could into\nthe sea; then retreating, sat down, flat on the sand, and waited for a\nbite. It was literally (or _littorally_) walking down to the shore, and\nthrowing your line into the Atlantic. I should not have known what\nmight take hold of the other end, whether Proteus or another. At any\nrate, if you could not pull him in, why, you might let him go without\nbeing pulled in yourself. And _they_ knew by experience that it would\nbe a Striped Bass, or perhaps a Cod, for these fishes play along near\nthe shore.\n\nFrom time to time we sat under the lee of a sand-hill on the bank,\nthinly covered with coarse Beach-grass, and steadily gazed on the sea,\nor watched the vessels going south, all Blessings of the Bay of course.\nWe could see a little more than half a circle of ocean, besides the\nglimpses of the Bay which we got behind us; the sea there was not wild\nand dreary in all respects, for there were frequently a hundred sail in\nsight at once on the Atlantic. You can commonly count about eighty in a\nfavorable summer day and pilots sometimes land and ascend the bank to\nlook out for these which require their services. These had been waiting\nfor fair weather, and had come out of Boston Harbor together. The same\nis the case when they have been assembled in the Vineyard Sound, so\nthat you may see but few one day, and a large fleet the next. Schooners\nwith many jibs and stay-sails crowded all the sea road; square-rigged\nvessels with their great height and breadth of canvas were ever and\nanon appearing out of the far horizon, or disappearing and sinking into\nit; here and there a pilot-boat was towing its little boat astern\ntoward some distant foreigner who had just fired a gun, the echo of\nwhich along the shore sounded like the caving of the bank. We could see\nthe pilot looking through his glass toward the distant ship which was\nputting back to speak with him. He sails many a mile to meet her; and\nnow she puts her sails aback, and communicates with him\nalongside,\u2014sends some important message to the owners, and then bids\nfarewell to these shores for good and all; or, perchance a propeller\npassed and made fast to some disabled craft, or one that had been\nbecalmed, whose cargo of fruit might spoil. Though silently, and for\nthe most part incommunicatively, going about their business, they were,\nno doubt, a source of cheerfulness and a kind of society to one\nanother.\n\n[Illustration: Unloading the day\u2019s catch]\n\nTo-day it was the Purple Sea, an epithet which I should not before have\naccepted. There were distinct patches of the color of a purple grape\nwith the bloom rubbed off. But first and last the sea is of all colors.\nWell writes Gilpin concerning \u201cthe brilliant hues which are continually\nplaying on the surface of a quiet ocean,\u201d and this was not too\nturbulent at a distance from the shore. \u201cBeautiful,\u201d says he, \u201cno doubt\nin a high degree are those glimmering tints which often invest the tops\nof mountains; but they are mere coruscations compared with these marine\ncolors, which are continually varying and shifting into each other in\nall the vivid splendor of the rainbow, through the space often of\nseveral leagues.\u201d Commonly, in calm weather, for half a mile from the\nshore, where the bottom tinges it, the sea is green, or greenish, as\nare some ponds; then blue for many miles, often with purple tinges,\nbounded in the distance by a light almost silvery stripe; beyond which\nthere is generally a dark-blue rim, like a mountain-ridge in the\nhorizon, as if, like that, it owed its color to the intervening\natmosphere. On another day it will be marked with long streaks,\nalternately smooth and rippled, light-colored and dark, even like our\ninland meadows in a freshet, and showing which way the wind sets.\n\nThus we sat on the foaming shore, looking on the wine-colored ocean,\u2014\n\n\u03a6\u03af\u03bd\u2019 \u1f14\u03c6\u2019 \u1f01\u03bb\u1f78\u03c2 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03b9\u1fc6\u03c2, \u1f41\u03c1\u03cc\u03c9\u03bd \u1f10\u03c0\u1f76 \u03bf\u1f34\u03bd\u03bf\u03c0\u03b1 \u03c0\u03cc\u03bd\u03c4\u03bf\u03bd.\n\n\nHere and there was a darker spot on its surface, the shadow of a cloud,\nthough the sky was so clear that no cloud would have been noticed\notherwise, and no shadow would have been seen on the land, where a much\nsmaller surface is visible at once. So, distant clouds and showers may\nbe seen on all sides by a sailor in the course of a day, which do not\nnecessarily portend rain where he is. In July we saw similar dark-blue\npatches where schools of Menhaden rippled the surface, scarcely to be\ndistinguished from the shadows of clouds. Sometimes the sea was spotted\nwith them far and wide, such is its inexhaustible fertility. Close at\nhand you see their back fin, which is very long and sharp, projecting\ntwo or three inches above water. From time to time also we saw the\nwhite bellies of the Bass playing along the shore.\n\nIt was a poetic recreation to watch those distant sails steering for\nhalf-fabulous ports, whose very names are a mysterious music to our\nears: Fayal, and Babelmandel, ay, and Chagres, and Panama,\u2014bound to the\nfamous Bay of San Francisco, and the golden streams of Sacramento and\nSan Joaquin, to Feather River and the American Fork, where Sutter\u2019s\nFort presides, and inland stands the City de los Angeles. It is\nremarkable that men do not sail the sea with more expectation. Nothing\nremarkable was ever accomplished in a prosaic mood. The heroes and\ndiscoverers have found true more than was previously believed, only\nwhen they were expecting and dreaming of something more than their\ncontemporaries dreamed of, or even themselves discovered, that is, when\nthey were in a frame of mind fitted to behold the truth. Referred to\nthe world\u2019s standard, they are always insane. Even savages have\nindirectly surmised as much. Humboldt, speaking of Columbus approaching\nthe New World, says: \u201cThe grateful coolness of the evening air, the\nethereal purity of the starry firmament, the balmy fragrance of\nflowers, wafted to him by the land breeze, all led him to suppose (as\nwe are told by Herrara, in the Decades) that he was approaching the\ngarden of Eden, the sacred abode of our first parents. The Orinoco\nseemed to him one of the four rivers which, according to the venerable\ntradition of the ancient world, flowed from Paradise, to water and\ndivide the surface of the earth, newly adorned with plants.\u201d So even\nthe expeditions for the discovery of El Dorado, and of the Fountain of\nYouth, led to real, if not compensatory discoveries.\n\nWe discerned vessels so far off, when once we began to look, that only\nthe tops of their masts in the horizon were visible, and it took a\nstrong intention of the eye, and its most favorable side, to see them\nat all, and sometimes we doubted if we were not counting our eyelashes.\nCharles Darwin states that he saw, from the base of the Andes, \u201cthe\nmasts of the vessels at anchor in the bay of Valparaiso, although not\nless than twenty-six geographical miles distant,\u201d and that Anson had\nbeen surprised at the distance at which his vessels were discovered\nfrom the coast, without knowing the reason, namely, the great height of\nthe land and the transparency of the air. Steamers may be detected much\nfarther than sailing vessels, for, as one says, when their hulls and\nmasts of wood and iron are down, their smoky masts and streamers still\nbetray them; and the same writer, speaking of the comparative\nadvantages of bituminous and anthracite coal for war-steamers, states\nthat, \u201cfrom the ascent of the columns of smoke above the horizon, the\nmotions of the steamers in Calais Harbor [on the coast of France] are\nat all times observable at Ramsgate [on the English coast], from the\nfirst lighting of the fires to the putting out at sea; and that in\nAmerica the steamers burning the fat bituminous coal can be tracked at\nsea at least seventy miles before the hulls become visible, by the\ndense columns of black smoke pouring out of their chimneys, and\ntrailing along the horizon.\u201d\n\nThough there were numerous vessels at this great distance in the\nhorizon on every side, yet the vast spaces between them, like the\nspaces between the stars, far as they were distant from us, so were\nthey from one another,\u2014nay, some were twice as far from each other as\nfrom us,\u2014impressed us with a sense of the immensity of the ocean, the\n\u201cunfruitful ocean,\u201d as it has been called, and we could see what\nproportion man and his works bear to the globe. As we looked off, and\nsaw the water growing darker and darker and deeper and deeper the\nfarther we looked, till it was awful to consider, and it appeared to\nhave no relation to the friendly land, either as shore or bottom,\u2014of\nwhat use is a bottom if it is out of sight, if it is two or three miles\nfrom the surface, and you are to be drowned so long before you get to\nit, though it were made of the same stuff with your native soil?\u2014over\nthat ocean, where, as the Veda says, \u201cthere is nothing to give support,\nnothing to rest upon, nothing to cling to,\u201d I felt that I was a land\nanimal. The man in a balloon even may commonly alight on the earth in a\nfew moments, but the sailor\u2019s only hope is that he may reach the\ndistant shore. I could then appreciate the heroism of the old\nnavigator. Sir Humphrey Gilbert, of whom it is related that, being\novertaken by a storm when on his return from America, in the year 1583,\nfar northeastward from where we were, sitting abaft with a book in his\nhand, just before he was swallowed up in the deep, he cried out to his\ncomrades in the _Hind_, as they came within hearing, \u201cWe are as near to\nHeaven by sea as by land.\u201d I saw that it would not be easy to realize.\n\nOn Cape Cod, the next most eastern land you hear of is St. George\u2019s\nBank (the fishermen tell of \u201cGeorges,\u201d \u201cCashus,\u201d and other sunken lands\nwhich they frequent). Every Cape man has a theory about George\u2019s Bank\nhaving been an island once, and in their accounts they gradually reduce\nthe shallowness from six, five, four, two fathoms, to somebody\u2019s\nconfident assertion that he has seen a mackerel-gull sitting on a\npiece of dry land there. It reminded me, when I thought of the\nshipwrecks which had taken place there, of the Isle of Demons, laid\ndown off this coast in old charts of the New World. There must be\nsomething monstrous, methinks, in a vision of the sea bottom from over\nsome bank a thousand miles from the shore, more awful than its imagined\nbottomlessness; a drowned continent, all livid and frothing at the\nnostrils, like the body of a drowned man, which is better sunk deep\nthan near the surface.\n\nI have been surprised to discover from a steamer the shallowness of\nMassachusetts Bay itself. Off Billingsgate Point I could have touched\nthe bottom with a pole, and I plainly saw it variously shaded with\nsea-weed, at five or six miles from the shore. This is \u201cThe\nShoal-ground of the Cape,\u201d it is true, but elsewhere the bay is not\nmuch deeper than a country pond. We are told that the deepest water in\nthe English Channel between Shakespeare\u2019s Cliff and Cape Grin\u00e9z, in\nFrance, is one hundred and eighty feet; and Guyot says that \u201cthe Baltic\nSea has a depth of only one hundred and twenty feet between the coasts\nof Germany and those of Sweden,\u201d and \u201cthe Adriatic between Venice and\nTrieste has a depth of only one hundred and thirty feet.\u201d A pond in my\nnative town, only half a mile long, is more than one hundred feet deep.\n\nThe ocean is but a larger lake. At midsummer you may sometimes see a\nstrip of glassy smoothness on it, a few rods in width and many miles\nlong, as if the surface there were covered with a thin pellicle of oil,\njust as on a country pond; a sort of stand-still, you would say, at the\nmeeting or parting of two currents of air (if it does not rather mark\nthe unrippled steadiness of a current of water beneath), for sailors\ntell of the ocean and land breeze meeting between the fore and aft\nsails of a vessel, while the latter are full, the former being suddenly\ntaken aback. Daniel Webster, in one of his letters describing\nblue-fishing off Martha\u2019s Vineyard, referring to those smooth places,\nwhich fishermen and sailors call \u201cslicks,\u201d says: \u201cWe met with them\nyesterday, and our boatman made for them, whenever discovered. He said\nthey were caused by the blue-fish chopping up their prey. That is to\nsay, those voracious fellows get into a school of menhaden, which are\ntoo large to swallow whole, and they bite them into pieces to suit\ntheir tastes. And the oil from this butchery, rising to the surface,\nmakes the \u2018slick.\u2019\u201d\n\nYet this same placid Ocean, as civil now as a city\u2019s harbor, a place\nfor ships and commerce, will erelong be lashed into sudden fury, and\nall its caves and cliffs will resound with tumult. It will ruthlessly\nheave these vessels to and fro, break them in pieces in its sandy or\nstony jaws, and deliver their crews to sea-monsters. It will play with\nthem like sea-weed, distend them like dead frogs, and carry them about,\nnow high, now low, to show to the fishes, giving them a nibble. This\ngentle Ocean will toss and tear the rag of a man\u2019s body like the father\nof mad bulls, and his relatives may be seen seeking the remnants for\nweeks along the strand. From some quiet inland hamlet they have rushed\nweeping to the unheard-of shore, and now stand uncertain where a sailor\nhas recently been buried amid the sandhills.\n\nIt is generally supposed that they who have long been conversant with\nthe Ocean can foretell by certain indications, such as its roar and the\nnotes of sea-fowl, when it will change from calm to storm; but probably\nno such ancient mariner as we dream of exists; they know no more, at\nleast, than the older sailors do about this voyage of life on which we\nare all embarked. Nevertheless, we love to hear the sayings of old\nsailors, and their accounts of natural phenomena, which totally ignore,\nand are ignored by, science; and possibly they have not always looked\nover the gunwale so long in vain. Kalm repeats a story which was told\nhim in Philadelphia by a Mr. Cock, who was one day sailing to the West\nIndies in a small yacht, with an old man on board who was well\nacquainted with those seas. \u201cThe old man sounding the depth, called to\nthe mate to tell Mr. Cock to launch the boats immediately, and to put a\nsufficient number of men into them, in order to tow the yacht during\nthe calm, that they might reach the island before them as soon as\npossible, as within twenty-four hours there would be a strong\nhurricane. Mr. Cock asked him what reasons he had to think so; the old\nman replied that, on sounding, he saw the lead in the water at a\ndistance of many fathoms more than he had seen it before; that\ntherefore the water was become clear all of a sudden, which he looked\nupon as a certain sign of an impending hurricane in the sea.\u201d The\nsequel of the story is that, by good fortune and by dint of rowing they\nmanaged to gain a safe harbor before the hurricane had reached its\nheight; but it finally raged with so much violence that not only many\nships were lost and houses unroofed, but even their own vessel in\nharbor was washed so far on shore that several weeks elapsed before it\ncould be got off.\n\nThe Greeks would not have called the ocean \u1f00\u03c4\u03c1\u03cd\u03b3\u03b5\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2, or unfruitful,\nthough it does not produce wheat, if they had viewed it by the light of\nmodern science; for naturalists now assert that \u201cthe sea, and not the\nland, is the principal seat of life,\u201d\u2014though not of vegetable life.\nDarwin affirms that \u201cour most thickly inhabited forests appear almost\nas deserts when we come to compare them with the corresponding regions\nof the ocean.\u201d Agassiz and Gould tell us that \u201cthe sea teems with\nanimals of all classes, far beyond the extreme point of flowering\nplants\u201d; but they add that \u201cexperiments of dredging in very deep water\nhave also taught us that the abyss of the ocean is nearly a\ndesert\u201d;\u2014\u201cso that modern investigations,\u201d to quote the words of Desor,\n\u201cmerely go to confirm the great idea which was vaguely anticipated by\nthe ancient poets and philosophers, that the Ocean is the origin of all\nthings.\u201d Yet marine animals and plants hold a lower rank in the scale\nof being than land animals and plants. \u201cThere is no instance known,\u201d\nsays Desor, \u201cof an animal becoming aquatic in its perfect state, after\nhaving lived in its lower stage on dry land.\u201d but as in the case of the\ntadpole, \u201cthe progress invariably points towards the dry land.\u201d In\nshort, the dry land itself came through and out of the water in its way\nto the heavens, for, \u201cin going back through the geological ages, we\ncome to an epoch when, according to all appearances, the dry land did\nnot exist, and when the surface of our globe was entirely covered with\nwater.\u201d We looked on the sea, then, once more, not as \u1f00\u03c4\u03c1\u03cd\u03b3\u03b5\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2, or\nunfruitful, but as it has been more truly called, the \u201claboratory of\ncontinents.\u201d\n\nThough we have indulged in some placid reflections of late, the reader\nmust not forget that the dash and roar of the waves were incessant.\nIndeed, it would be well if he were to read with a large conch-shell at\nhis ear. But notwithstanding that it was very cold and windy to-day, it\nwas such a cold as we thought would not cause one to take cold who was\nexposed to it, owing to the saltness of the air and the dryness of the\nsoil. Yet the author of the old Description of Wellfleet says: \u201cThe\natmosphere is very much impregnated with saline particles, which,\nperhaps, with the great use of fish, and the neglect of cider and\nspruce-beer, may be a reason why the people are more subject to sore\nmouths and throats than in other places.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nVII\nACROSS THE CAPE\n\n\nWhen we have returned from the seaside, we sometimes ask ourselves why\nwe did not spend more time in gazing at the sea; but very soon the\ntraveller does not look as the sea more than at the heavens. As for the\ninterior, if the elevated sand-bar in the midst of the ocean can be\nsaid to have any interior, it was an exceedingly desolate landscape,\nwith rarely a cultivated or cultivable field in sight. We saw no\nvillages, and seldom a house, for these are generally on the Bay side.\nIt was a succession of shrubby hills and valleys, now wearing an\nautumnal tint. You would frequently think, from the character of the\nsurface, the dwarfish trees, and the bearberries around, that you were\non the top of a mountain. The only wood in Eastham was on the edge of\nWellfleet. The pitch-pines were not commonly more than fifteen or\neighteen feet high. The larger ones covered with lichens,\u2014often hung\nwith the long gray _Usnea_. There is scarcely a white-pine on the\nforearm of the Cape. Yet in the northwest part of Eastham, near the\nCamp Ground, we saw, the next summer, some quite rural, and even sylvan\nretreats, for the Cape, where small rustling groves of oaks and locusts\nand whispering pines, on perfectly level ground, made a little\nparadise. The locusts, both transplanted and growing naturally about\nthe houses there, appeared to flourish better than any other tree.\nThere were thin belts of wood in Wellfleet and Truro, a mile or more\nfrom the Atlantic, but, for the most part, we could see the horizon\nthrough them, or, if extensive, the trees were not large. Both oaks and\npines had often the same flat look with the apple-trees. Commonly, the\noak woods twenty-five years old were a mere scraggy shrubbery nine or\nten feet high, and we could frequently reach to their topmost leaf.\nMuch that is called \u201cwoods\u201d was about half as high as this,\u2014only\npatches of shrub-oak, bayberry, beach-plum, and wild roses, overrun\nwith woodbine. When the roses were in bloom, these patches in the midst\nof the sand displayed such a profusion of blossoms, mingled with the\naroma of the bayberry, that no Italian or other artificial rose-garden\ncould equal them. They were perfectly Elysian, and realized my idea of\nan oasis in the desert. Huckleberry-bushes were very abundant, and the\nnext summer they bore a remarkable quantity of that kind of gall called\nHuckleberry-apple, forming quite handsome though monstrous blossoms.\nBut it must be added, that this shrubbery swarmed with wood-ticks,\nsometimes very troublesome parasites, and which it takes very horny\nfingers to crack.\n\n[Illustration: A Truro footpath]\n\nThe inhabitants of these towns have a great regard for a tree, though\ntheir standard for one is necessarily neither large nor high; and when\nthey tell you of the large trees that once grew here, you must think of\nthem, not as absolutely large, but large compared with the present\ngeneration. Their \u201cbrave old oaks,\u201d of which they speak with so much\nrespect, and which they will point out to you as relics of the\nprimitive forest, one hundred or one hundred and fifty, ay, for aught\nthey know, two hundred years old, have a ridiculously dwarfish\nappearance, which excites a smile in the beholder. The largest and most\nvenerable which they will show you in such a case are, perhaps, not\nmore than twenty or twenty-five feet high. I was especially amused by\nthe Liliputian old oaks in the south part of Truro. To the\ninexperienced eye, which appreciated their proportions only, they might\nappear vast as the tree which saved his royal majesty, but measured,\nthey were dwarfed at once almost into lichens which a deer might eat up\nin a morning. Yet they will tell you that large schooners were once\nbuilt of timber which grew in Wellfleet. The old houses also are built\nof the timber of the Cape; but instead of the forests in the midst of\nwhich they originally stood, barren heaths, with poverty-grass for\nheather, now stretch away on every side. The modern houses are built of\nwhat is called \u201cdimension timber,\u201d _imported_ from Maine, all ready to\nbe set up, so that commonly they do not touch it again with an axe.\nAlmost all the wood used for fuel is imported by vessels or currents,\nand of course all the coal. I was told that probably a quarter of the\nfuel and a considerable part of the lumber used in North Truro was\ndrift-wood. Many get _all_ their fuel from the beach.\n\nOf birds not found in the interior of the State,\u2014at least in my\nneighborhood,\u2014I heard, in the summer, the Black-throated Bunting\n(_Fringilla Americana_) amid the shrubbery, and in the open land the\nUpland Plover (_Totanus Bartramius_), whose quivering notes were ever\nand anon prolonged into a clear, somewhat plaintive, yet hawk-like\nscream, which sounded at a very indefinite distance. The bird may have\nbeen in the next field, though it sounded a mile off.\n\nTo-day we were walking through Truro, a town of about eighteen hundred\ninhabitants. We had already come to Pamet River, which empties into the\nBay. This was the limit of the Pilgrims\u2019 journey up the Cape from\nProvincetown, when seeking a place for settlement. It rises in a hollow\nwithin a few rods of the Atlantic, and one who lives near its source\ntold us that in high tides the sea leaked through, yet the wind and\nwaves preserve intact the barrier between them, and thus the whole\nriver is steadily driven westward butt-end foremost,\u2014fountain-head,\nchannel, and light-house at the mouth, all together.\n\nEarly in the afternoon we reached the Highland Light, whose white tower\nwe had seen rising out of the bank in front of us for the last mile or\ntwo. It is fourteen miles from the Nauset Lights, on what is called the\nClay Pounds, an immense bed of clay abutting on the Atlantic, and, as\nthe keeper told us, stretching quite across the Cape, which is here\nonly about two miles wide. We perceived at once a difference in the\nsoil, for there was an interruption of the desert, and a slight\nappearance of a sod under our feet, such as we had not seen for the\nlast two days.\n\nAfter arranging to lodge at the light-house, we rambled across the Cape\nto the Bay, over a singularly bleak and barren-looking country,\nconsisting of rounded hills and hollows, called by geologists diluvial\nelevations and depressions,\u2014a kind of scenery which has been compared\nto a chopped sea, though this suggests too sudden a transition. There\nis a delineation of this very landscape in Hitchcock\u2019s Report on the\nGeology of Massachusetts, a work which, by its size at least, reminds\none of a diluvial elevation itself. Looking southward from the\nlight-house, the Cape appeared like an elevated plateau, sloping very\nregularly, though slightly, downward from the edge of the bank on the\nAtlantic side, about one hundred and fifty feet above the ocean, to\nthat on the Bay side. On traversing this we found it to be interrupted\nby broad valleys or gullies, which become the hollows in the bank when\nthe sea has worn up to them. They are commonly at right angles with the\nshore, and often extend quite across the Cape. Some of the valleys,\nhowever, are circular, a hundred feet deep without any outlet, as if\nthe Cape had sunk in those places, or its sands had run out. The few\nscattered houses which we passed, being placed at the bottom of the\nhollows for shelter and fertility, were, for the most part, concealed\nentirely, as much as if they had been swallowed up in the earth. Even a\nvillage with its meeting-house, which we had left little more than a\nstone\u2019s throw behind, had sunk into the earth, spire and all, and we\nsaw only the surface of the upland and the sea on either hand. When\napproaching it, we had mistaken the belfry for a summer-house on the\nplain. We began to think that we might tumble into a village before we\nwere aware of it, as into an ant-lion\u2019s hole, and be drawn into the\nsand irrecoverably. The most conspicuous objects on the land were a\ndistant windmill, or a meeting-house standing alone, for only they\ncould afford to occupy an exposed place. A great part of the township,\nhowever, is a barren, heath-like plain, and perhaps one third of it\nlies in common, though the property of individuals. The author of the\nold \u201cDescription of Truro,\u201d speaking of the soil, says: \u201cThe snow,\nwhich would be of essential service to it provided it lay level and\ncovered the ground, is blown into drifts and into the sea.\u201d This\npeculiar open country, with here and there a patch of shrubbery,\nextends as much as seven miles, or from Pamet River on the south to\nHigh Head on the north, and from Ocean to Bay. To walk over it makes on\na stranger such an impression as being at sea, and he finds it\nimpossible to estimate distances in any weather. A windmill or a herd\nof cows may seem to be far away in the horizon, yet, after going a few\nrods, he will be close upon them. He is also deluded by other kinds of\nmirage. When, in the summer, I saw a family a-blueberrying a mile off,\nwalking about amid the dwarfish bushes which did not come up higher\nthan their ankles, they seemed to me to be a race of giants, twenty\nfeet high at least.\n\nThe highest and sandiest portion next the Atlantic was thinly covered\nwith Beach-grass and Indigo-weed. Next to this the surface of the\nupland generally consisted of white sand and gravel, like coarse salt,\nthrough which a scanty vegetation found its way up. It will give an\nornithologist some idea of its barrenness if I mention that the next\nJune, the month of grass, I found a night-hawk\u2019s eggs there, and that\nalmost any square rod thereabouts, taken at random, would be an\neligible site for such a deposit. The kildeer-plover, which loves a\nsimilar locality, also drops its eggs there, and fills the air above\nwith its din. This upland also produced _Cladonia_ lichens,\npoverty-grass, savory-leaved aster (_Diplopappus linariifolius_),\nmouse-ear, bear-berry, &c. On a few hillsides the savory-leaved aster\nand mouse-ear alone made quite a dense sward, said to be very pretty\nwhen the aster is in bloom. In some parts the two species of\npoverty-grass (_Hudsonia tomentosa_ and _ericoides_), which deserve a\nbetter name, reign for miles in littli hemispherical tufts or islets,\nlike moss, scattered over the waste. They linger in bloom there till\nthe middle of July. Occasionally near the beach these rounded beds, as\nalso those of the sea-sandwort (_Honkenya peploides_), were filled with\nsand within an inch of their tops, and were hard, like large ant-hills,\nwhile the surrounding sand was soft. In summer, if the poverty-grass\ngrows at the head of a Hollow looking toward the sea, in a bleak\nposition where the wind rushes up, the northern or exposed half of the\ntuft is sometimes all black and dead like an oven-broom, while the\nopposite half is yellow with blossoms, the whole hillside thus\npresenting a remarkable contrast when seen from the poverty-stricken\nand the flourishing side. This plant, which in many places would be\nesteemed an ornament, is here despised by many on account of its being\nassociated with barrenness. It might well be adopted for the Barnstable\ncoat-of-arms, in a field _sableux_. I should be proud of it. Here and\nthere were tracts of Beach-grass mingled with the Sea-side Goldenrod\nand Beach-pea, which reminded us still more forcibly of the ocean.\n\n[Illustration: Truro meeting-house on the hill]\n\nWe read that there was not a brook in Truro. Yet there were deer here\nonce, which must often have panted in vain; but I am pretty sure that I\nafterward saw a small fresh-water brook emptying into the south side of\nPamet River, though I was so heedless as not to taste it. At any rate,\na little boy near by told me that he drank at it. There was not a tree\nas far as we could see, and that was many miles each way, the general\nlevel of the upland being about the same everywhere. Even from the\nAtlantic side we overlooked the Bay, and saw to Manomet Point in\nPlymouth, and better from that side because it was the highest. The\nalmost universal bareness and smoothness of the landscape were as\nagreeable as novel, making it so much the more like the deck of a\nvessel. We saw vessels sailing south into the Bay, on the one hand, and\nnorth along the Atlantic shore, on the other, all with an aft wind.\n\nThe single road which runs lengthwise the Cape, now winding over the\nplain, now through the shrubbery which scrapes the wheels of the stage,\nwas a mere cart-track in the sand, commonly without any fences to\nconfine it, and continually changing from this side to that, to harder\nground, or sometimes to avoid the tide. But the inhabitants travel the\nwaste here and there pilgrim-wise and staff in hand, by narrow\nfootpaths, through which the sand flows out and reveals the nakedness\nof the land. We shuddered at the thought of living there and taking our\nafternoon walks over those barren swells, where we could overlook every\nstep of our walk before taking it, and would have to pray for a fog or\na snow-storm to conceal our destiny. The walker there must soon eat his\nheart.\n\nIn the north part of the town there is no house from shore to shore for\nseveral miles, and it is as wild and solitary as the Western\nPrairies\u2014used to be. Indeed, one who has seen every house in Truro will\nbe surprised to hear of the number of the inhabitants, but perhaps five\nhundred of the men and boys of this small town were then abroad on\ntheir fishing grounds. Only a few men stay at home to till the sand or\nwatch for blackfish. The farmers are fishermen-farmers and understand\nbetter ploughing the sea than the land. They do not disturb their sands\nmuch, though there is a plenty of sea-weed in the creeks, to say\nnothing of blackfish occasionally rotting the shore. Between the Pond\nand East Harbor Village there was an interesting plantation of\npitch-pines, twenty or thirty acres in extent, like those which we had\nalready seen from the stage. One who lived near said that the land was\npurchased by two men for a shilling or twenty-five cents an acre. Some\nis not considered worth writing a deed for. This soil or sand, which\nwas partially covered with poverty and beach grass, sorrel, &c., was\nfurrowed at intervals of about four feet and the seed dropped by a\nmachine. The pines had come up admirably and grown the first year three\nor four inches, and the second six inches and more. Where the seed had\nbeen lately planted the white sand was freshly exposed in an endless\nfurrow winding round and round the sides of the deep hollows, in a\nvertical spiral manner, which produced a very singular effect, as if\nyou were looking into the reverse side of a vast banded shield. This\nexperiment, so important to the Cape, appeared very successful, and\nperhaps the time will come when the greater part of this kind of land\nin Barnstable County will be thus covered with an artificial pine\nforest, as has been done in some parts of France. In that country\n12,500 acres of downs had been thus covered in 1811 near Bayonne. They\nare called _pignadas_, and according to Loudon \u201cconstitute the\nprincipal riches of the inhabitants, where there was a drifting desert\nbefore.\u201d It seemed a nobler kind of grain to raise than corn even.\n\n[Illustration: A herd of cows]\n\nA few years ago Truro was remarkable among the Cape towns for the\nnumber of sheep raised in it; but I was told that at this time only two\nmen kept sheep in the town, and in 1855, a Truro boy ten years old told\nme that he had never seen one. They were formerly pastured on the\nunfenced lands or general fields, but now the owners were more\nparticular to assert their rights, and it cost too much for fencing.\nThe rails are cedar from Maine, and two rails will answer for ordinary\npurposes, but four are required for sheep. This was the reason assigned\nby one who had formerly kept them for not keeping them any longer.\nFencing stuff is so expensive that I saw fences made with only one\nrail, and very often the rail when split was carefully tied with a\nstring. In one of the villages I saw the next summer a cow tethered by\na rope six rods long, the rope long in proportion as the feed was short\nand thin. Sixty rods, ay, all the cables of the Cape, would have been\nno more than fair. Tethered in the desert for fear that she would get\ninto Arabia Felix! I helped a man weigh a bundle of hay which he was\nselling to his neighbor, holding one end of a pole from which it swung\nby a steel-yard hook, and this was just half his whole crop. In short,\nthe country looked so barren that I several times refrained from asking\nthe inhabitants for a string or a piece of wrapping-paper, for fear I\nshould rob them, for they plainly were obliged to import these things\nas well as rails, and where there were no newsboys, I did not see what\nthey would do for waste paper.\n\nThe objects around us, the make-shifts of fishermen ashore, often made\nus look down to see if we were standing on terra firma. In the wells\neverywhere a block and tackle were used to raise the bucket, instead of\na windlass, and by almost every house was laid up a spar or a plank or\ntwo full of auger-holes, saved from a wreck. The windmills were partly\nbuilt of these, and they were worked into the public bridges. The\nlight-house keeper, who was having his barn shingled, told me casually\nthat he had made three thousand good shingles for that purpose out of a\nmast. You would sometimes see an old oar used for a rail. Frequently\nalso some fair-weather finery ripped off a vessel by a storm near the\ncoast was nailed up against an outhouse. I saw fastened to a shed near\nthe lighthouse a long new sign with the words \u201cANGLO SAXON\u201d on it in\nlarge gilt letters, as if it were a useless part which the ship could\nafford to lose, or which the sailors had discharged at the same time\nwith the pilot. But it interested somewhat as if it had been a part of\nthe Argo, clipped off in passing through the Symplegades.\n\nTo the fisherman, the Cape itself is a sort of store-ship laden with\nsupplies,\u2014a safer and larger craft which carries the women and\nchildren, the old men and the sick; and indeed sea-phrases are as\ncommon on it as on board a vessel. Thus is it ever with a sea-going\npeople. The old Northmen used to speak of the \u201ckeel-ridge\u201d of the\ncountry, that is, the ridge of the Doffrafield Mountains, as if the\nland were a boat turned bottom up. I was frequently reminded of the\nNorthmen here. The inhabitants of the Cape are often at once farmers\nand sea-rovers; they are more than vikings or kings of the bays, for\ntheir sway extends over the open sea also. A farmer in Wellfleet, at\nwhose house I afterward spent a night, who had raised fifty bushels of\npotatoes the previous year, which is a large crop for the Cape, and had\nextensive salt-works, pointed to his schooner, which lay in sight, in\nwhich he and his man and boy occasionally ran down the coast a-trading\nas far as the Capes of Virginia. This was his market-cart, and his\nhired man knew how to steer her. Thus he drove two teams a-field,\n\n\u201cere the high _seas_ appeared\nUnder the opening eyelids of the morn.\u201d\n\n\nThough probably he would not hear much of the \u201cgray fly\u201d on his way to\nVirginia.\n\nA great proportion of the inhabitants of the Cape are always thus\nabroad about their teaming on some ocean highway or other, and the\nhistory of one of their ordinary trips would cast the Argonautic\nexpedition into the shade. I have just heard of a Cape Cod captain who\nwas expected home in the beginning of the winter from the West Indies,\nbut was long since given up for lost, till his relations at length have\nheard with joy, that, after getting within forty miles of Cape Cod\nlight, he was driven back by nine successive gales to Key West, between\nFlorida and Cuba, and was once again shaping his course for home. Thus\nhe spent his winter. In ancient times the adventures of these two or\nthree men and boys would have been made the basis of a myth, but now\nsuch tales are crowded into a line of shorthand signs, like an\nalgebraic formula in the shipping news. \u201cWherever over the world,\u201d said\nPalfrey in his oration at Barnstable, \u201cyou see the stars and stripes\nfloating, you may have good hope that beneath them some one will be\nfound who can tell you the soundings of Barnstable, or Wellfleet, or\nChatham Harbor.\u201d\n\nI passed by the home of somebody\u2019s (or everybody\u2019s) Uncle Bill, one day\nover on the Plymouth shore. It was a schooner half keeled-up on the\nmud: we aroused the master out of a sound sleep at noonday, by thumping\non the bottom of his vessel till he presented himself at the hatchway,\nfor we wanted to borrow his clam-digger. Meaning to make him a call, I\nlooked out the next morning, and lo! he had run over to \u201cthe Pines\u201d the\nevening before, fearing an easterly storm. He outrode the _great_ gale\nin the spring of 1851, dashing about alone in Plymouth Bay. He goes\nafter rockweed, lighters vessels, and saves wrecks. I still saw him\nlying in the mud over at \u201cthe Pines\u201d in the horizon, which place he\ncould not leave if he would till flood tide. But he would not then\nprobably. This waiting for the tide is a singular feature in life by\nthe sea-shore. A frequent answer is, \u201cWell! you can\u2019t start for two\nhours yet.\u201d It is something new to a landsman, and at first he is not\ndisposed to wait. History says that \u201ctwo inhabitants of Truro were the\nfirst who adventured to the Falkland Isles in pursuit of whales. This\nvoyage was undertaken in the year 1774, by the advice of Admiral\nMontague of the British navy, and was crowned with success.\u201d\n\nAt the Pond Village we saw a pond three eighths of a mile long densely\nfilled with cat-tail flags, seven feet high,\u2014enough for all the coopers\nin New England.\n\n[Illustration: Pond Village]\n\nThe western shore was nearly as sandy as the eastern, but the water was\nmuch smoother, and the bottom was partially covered with the slender\ngrass-like seaweed (_Zostera_), which we had not seen on the Atlantic\nside; there were also a few rude sheds for trying fish on the beach\nthere, which made it appear less wild. In the few marshes on this side\nwe afterward saw Samphire, Rosemary, and other plants new to us\ninlanders.\n\nIn the summer and fall sometimes, hundreds of blackfish (the Social\nWhale, _Globicephalus Melas_ of De Kay; called also Black Whale-fish,\nHowling Whale, Bottlehead, etc.), fifteen feet or more in length, are\ndriven ashore in a single school here. I witnessed such a scene in\nJuly, 1855. A carpenter who was working at the lighthouse arriving\nearly in the morning remarked that he did not know but he had lost\nfifty dollars by coming to his work; for as he came along the Bay side\nhe heard them driving a school of blackfish ashore, and he had debated\nwith himself whether he should not go and join them and take his share,\nbut had concluded to come to his work. After breakfast I came over to\nthis place, about two miles distant, and near the beach met some of the\nfishermen returning from their chase. Looking up and down the shore, I\ncould see about a mile south some large black masses on the sand, which\nI knew must be blackfish, and a man or two about them. As I walked\nalong towards them I soon came to a huge carcass whose head was gone\nand whose blubber had been stripped off some weeks before; the tide was\njust beginning to move it, and the stench compelled me to go a long way\nround. When I came to Great Hollow I found a fisherman and some boys on\nthe watch, and counted about thirty blackfish, just killed, with many\nlance wounds, and the water was more or less bloody around. They were\npartly on shore and partly in the water, held by a rope round their\ntails till the tide should leave them. A boat had been somewhat stove\nby the tail of one. They were a smooth shining black, like\nIndia-rubber, and had remarkably simple and lumpish forms for animated\ncreatures, with a blunt round snout or head, whale-like, and simple\nstiff-looking flippers. The largest were about fifteen feet long, but\none or two were only five feet long, and still without teeth. The\nfisherman slashed one with his jackknife, to show me how thick the\nblubber was,\u2014about three inches; and as I passed my finger through the\ncut it was covered thick with oil. The blubber looked like pork, and\nthis man said that when they were trying it the boys would sometimes\ncome round with a piece of bread in one hand, and take a piece of\nblubber in the other to eat with it, preferring it to pork scraps. He\nalso cut into the flesh beneath, which was firm and red like beef, and\nhe said that for his part he preferred it when fresh to beef. It is\nstated that in 1812 blackfish were used as food by the poor of\nBretagne. They were waiting for the tide to leave these fishes high and\ndry, that they might strip off the blubber and carry it to their\ntry-works in their boats, where they try it on the beach. They get\ncommonly a barrel of oil, worth fifteen or twenty dollars, to a fish.\nThere were many lances and harpoons in the boats,\u2014much slenderer\ninstruments than I had expected. An old man came along the beach with a\nhorse and wagon distributing the dinners of the fishermen, which their\nwives had put up in little pails and jugs, and which he had collected\nin the Pond Village, and for this service, I suppose, he received a\nshare of the oil. If one could not tell his own pail, he took the first\nhe came to.\n\nAs I stood there they raised the cry of \u201canother school,\u201d and we could\nsee their black backs and their blowing about a mile northward, as they\nwent leaping over the sea like horses. Some boats were already in\npursuit there, driving them toward the beach. Other fishermen and boys\nrunning up began to jump into the boats and push them off from where I\nstood, and I might have gone too had I chosen. Soon there were\ntwenty-five or thirty boats in pursuit, some large ones under sail, and\nothers rowing with might and main, keeping outside of the school, those\nnearest to the fishes striking on the sides of their boats and blowing\nhorns to drive them on to the beach. It was an exciting race. If they\nsucceed in driving them ashore each boat takes one share, and then each\nman, but if they are compelled to strike them off shore each boat\u2019s\ncompany take what they strike. I walked rapidly along the shore toward\nthe north, while the fishermen were rowing still more swiftly to join\ntheir companions, and a little boy who walked by my side was\ncongratulating himself that his father\u2019s boat was beating another one.\nAn old blind fisherman whom we met, inquired, \u201cWhere are they? I can\u2019t\nsee. Have they got them?\u201d In the mean while the fishes had turned and\nwere escaping northward toward Provincetown, only occasionally the back\nof one being seen. So the nearest crews were compelled to strike them,\nand we saw several boats soon made fast, each to its fish, which, four\nor five rods ahead, was drawing it like a race-horse straight toward\nthe beach, leaping half out of water, blowing blood and water from its\nhole, and leaving a streak of foam behind. But they went ashore too far\nnorth for us, though we could see the fishermen leap out and lance them\non the sand. It was just like pictures of whaling which I have seen,\nand a fisherman told me that it was nearly as dangerous. In his first\ntrial he had been much excited, and in his haste had used a lance with\nits scabbard on, but nevertheless had thrust it quite through his fish.\n\nI learned that a few days before this one hundred and eighty blackfish\nhad been driven ashore in one school at Eastham, a little farther\nsouth, and that the keeper of Billingsgate Point light went out one\nmorning about the same time and cut his initials on the backs of a\nlarge school which had run ashore in the night, and sold his right to\nthem to Provincetown for one thousand dollars, and probably\nProvincetown made as much more. Another fisherman told me that nineteen\nyears ago three hundred and eighty were driven ashore in one school at\nGreat Hollow. In the Naturalists\u2019 Library, it is said that, in the\nwinter of 1809-10, one thousand one hundred and ten \u201capproached the\nshore of Hralfiord, Iceland, and were captured.\u201d De Kay says it is not\nknown why they are stranded. But one fisherman declared to me that they\nran ashore in pursuit of squid, and that they generally came on the\ncoast about the last of July.\n\nAbout a week afterward, when I came to this shore, it was strewn, as\nfar as I could see with a glass, with the carcasses of blackfish\nstripped of their blubber and their heads cut off; the latter lying\nhigher up. Walking on the beach was out of the question on account of\nthe stench. Between Provincetown and Truro they lay in the very path of\nthe stage. Yet no steps were taken to abate the nuisance, and men were\ncatching lobsters as usual just off the shore. I was told that they did\nsometimes tow them out and sink them; yet I wondered where they got the\nstones to sink them with. Of course they might be made into guano, and\nCape Cod is not so fertile that her inhabitants can afford to do\nwithout this manure,\u2014to say nothing of the diseases they may produce.\n\nAfter my return home, wishing to learn what was known about the\nBlackfish, I had recourse to the reports of the zoological surveys of\nthe State, and I found that Storer had rightfully omitted it in his\nReport on the Fishes, since it is not a fish; so I turned to Emmons\u2019s\nReport of the Mammalia, but was surprised to find that the seals and\nwhales were omitted by him, because he had had no opportunity to\nobserve them. Considering how this State has risen and thriven by its\nfisheries,\u2014that the legislature which authorized the Zoological Survey\nsat under the emblem of a codfish,\u2014that Nantucket and New Bedford are\nwithin our limits,\u2014that an early riser may find a thousand or fifteen\nhundred dollars\u2019 worth of blackfish on the shore in a morning,\u2014that the\nPilgrims saw the Indians cutting up a blackfish on the shore at\nEastham, and called a part of that shore \u201cGrampus Bay,\u201d from the number\nof blackfish they found there, before they got to Plymouth,\u2014and that\nfrom that time to this these fishes have continued to enrich one or two\ncounties almost annually, and that their decaying carcasses were now\npoisoning the air of one county for more than thirty miles,\u2014I thought\nit remarkable that neither the popular nor scientific name was to be\nfound in a report on our mammalia,\u2014a catalogue of the productions of\nour land and water.\n\nWe had here, as well as all across the Cape, a fair view of\nProvincetown, five or six miles distant over the water toward the west,\nunder its shrubby sand-hills, with its harbor now full of vessels whose\nmasts mingled with the spires of its churches, and gave it the\nappearance of a quite large seaport town.\n\nThe inhabitants of all the lower Cape towns enjoy thus the prospect of\ntwo seas. Standing on the western or larboard shore, and looking\nacross to where the distant mainland looms, they can say, This is\nMassachusetts Bay; and then, after an hour\u2019s sauntering walk, they may\nstand on the starboard side, beyond which no land is seen to loom, and\nsay, This is the Atlantic Ocean.\n\nOn our way back to the lighthouse, by whose white-washed tower we\nsteered as securely as the mariner by its light at night, we passed\nthrough a graveyard, which apparently was saved from being blown away\nby its slates, for they had enabled a thick bed of huckleberry-bushes\nto root themselves amid the graves. We thought it would be worth the\nwhile to read the epitaphs where so many were lost at sea; however, as\nnot only their lives, but commonly their bodies also, were lost or not\nidentified, there were fewer epitaphs of this sort than we expected,\nthough there were not a few. Their graveyard is the ocean. Near the\neastern side we started up a fox in a hollow, the only kind of wild\nquadruped, if I except a skunk in a salt-marsh, that we saw in all our\nwalk (unless painted and box tortoises may be called quadrupeds). He\nwas a large, plump, shaggy fellow, like a yellow dog, with, as usual, a\nwhite tip to his tail, and looked as if he fared well on the Cape. He\ncantered away into the shrub-oaks and bayberry-bushes which chanced to\ngrow there, but were hardly high enough to conceal him. I saw another\nthe next summer leaping over the top of a beach-plum a little farther\nnorth, a small arc of his course (which I trust is not yet run), from\nwhich I endeavored in vain to calculate his whole orbit: there were too\nmany unknown attractions to be allowed for. I also saw the exuviae of a\nthird fast sinking into the sand, and added the skull to my collection.\nHence I concluded that they must be plenty thereabouts; but a traveller\nmay meet with more than an inhabitant, since he is more likely to take\nan unfrequented route across the country. They told me that in some\nyears they died off in great numbers by a kind of madness, under the\neffect of which they were seen whirling round and round as if in\npursuit of their tails. In Crantz\u2019s account of Greenland, he says:\n\u201cThey (the foxes) live upon birds and their eggs, and, when they can\u2019t\nget them, upon crowberries, mussels, crabs, and what the sea casts\nout.\u201d\n\nJust before reaching the light-house, we saw the sun set in the\nBay,\u2014for standing on that narrow Cape was, as I have said, like being\non the deck of a vessel, or rather at the masthead of a man-of-war,\nthirty miles at sea, though we knew that at the same moment the sun was\nsetting behind our native hills, which were just below the horizon in\nthat direction. This sight drove everything else quite out of our\nheads, and Homer and the Ocean came in again with a rush,\u2014\n\n\u1f18\u03bd \u03b4\u2019 \u1f14\u03c0\u03b5\u03c3\u2019 \u1f68\u03ba\u03b5\u03b1\u03bd\u1ff7 \u03bb\u03b1\u03bc\u03c0\u03c1\u1f78\u03bd \u03c6\u03ac\u03bf\u03c2 \u1f20\u03b5\u03bb\u03af\u03bf\u03b9\u03bf,\n\n\nthe shining torch of the sun fell into the ocean.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\nTHE HIGHLAND LIGHT\n\n\nThis light-house, known to mariners as the Cape Cod or Highland Light,\nis one of our \u201cprimary sea-coast lights,\u201d and is usually the first seen\nby those approaching the entrance of Massachusetts Bay from Europe. It\nis forty-three miles from Cape Ann Light, and forty-one from Boston\nLight. It stands about twenty rods from the edge of the bank, which is\nhere formed of clay. I borrowed the plane and square, level and\ndividers, of a carpenter who was shingling a barn near by, and using\none of those shingles made of a mast, contrived a rude sort of\nquadrant, with pins for sights and pivots, and got the angle of\nelevation of the Bank opposite the light-house, and with a couple of\ncod-lines the length of its slope, and so measured its height on the\nshingle. It rises one hundred and ten feet above its immediate base, or\nabout one hundred and twenty-three feet above mean low water. Graham,\nwho has carefully surveyed the extremity of the Cape, makes it one\nhundred and thirty feet. The mixed sand and clay lay at an angle of\nforty degrees with the horizon, where I measured it, but the clay is\ngenerally much steeper. No cow nor hen ever gets down it. Half a mile\nfarther south the bank is fifteen or twenty-five feet higher, and that\nappeared to be the highest land in North Truro. Even this vast clay\nbank is fast wearing away. Small streams of water trickling down it at\nintervals of two or three rods, have left the intermediate clay in the\nform of steep Gothic roofs fifty feet high or more, the ridges as sharp\nand rugged-looking as rocks; and in one place the bank is curiously\neaten out in the form of a large semicircular crater.\n\n[Illustration: Dragging a dory up on the beach]\n\nAccording to the light-house keeper, the Cape is wasting here on both\nsides, though most on the eastern. In some places it had lost many rods\nwithin the last year, and, erelong, the light-house must be moved. We\ncalculated, _from his data_, how soon the Cape would be quite worn away\nat this point, \u201cfor,\u201d said he, \u201cI can remember sixty years back.\u201d We\nwere even more surprised at this last announcement,\u2014that is, at the\nslow waste of life and energy in our informant, for we had taken him to\nbe not more than forty,\u2014than at the rapid wasting of the Cape, and we\nthought that he stood a fair chance to outlive the former.\n\nBetween this October and June of the next year I found that the bank\nhad lost about forty feet in one place, opposite the light-house, and\nit was cracked more than forty feet farther from the edge at the last\ndate, the shore being strewn with the recent rubbish. But I judged that\ngenerally it was not wearing away here at the rate of more than six\nfeet annually. Any conclusions drawn from the observations of a few\nyears or one generation only are likely to prove false, and the Cape\nmay balk expectation by its durability. In some places even a wrecker\u2019s\nfoot-path down the bank lasts several years. One old inhabitant told us\nthat when the light-house was built, in 1798, it was calculated that it\nwould stand forty-five years, allowing the bank to waste one length of\nfence each year, \u201cbut,\u201d said he, \u201cthere it is\u201d (or rather another near\nthe same site, about twenty rods from the edge of the bank).\n\nThe sea is not gaining on the Cape everywhere, for one man told me of a\nvessel wrecked long ago on the north of Provincetown whose \u201cbones\u201d\n(this was his word) are still visible many rods within the present line\nof the beach, half buried in sand. Perchance they lie alongside the\ntimbers of a whale. The general statement of the inhabitants is that\nthe Cape is wasting on both sides, but extending itself on particular\npoints on the south and west, as at Chatham and Monomoy Beaches, and at\nBillingsgate, Long, and Race Points. James Freeman stated in his day\nthat above three miles had been added to Monomoy Beach during the\nprevious fifty years, and it is said to be still extending as fast as\never. A writer in the Massachusetts Magazine, in the last century,\ntells us that \u201cwhen the English first settled upon the Cape, there was\nan island off Chatham, at three leagues\u2019 distance, called Webbs\u2019\nIsland, containing twenty acres, covered with red-cedar or savin. The\ninhabitants of Nantucket used to carry wood from it\u201d; but he adds that\nin his day a large rock alone marked the spot, and the water was six\nfathoms deep there. The entrance to Nauset Harbor, which was once in\nEastham, has now travelled south into Orleans. The islands in Wellfleet\nHarbor once formed a continuous beach, though now small vessels pass\nbetween them. And so of many other parts of this coast.\n\nPerhaps what the Ocean takes from one part of the Cape it gives to\nanother,\u2014robs Peter to pay Paul. On the eastern side the sea appears to\nbe everywhere encroaching on the land. Not only the land is undermined,\nand its ruins carried off by currents, but the sand is blown from the\nbeach directly up the steep bank where it is one hundred and fifty feet\nhigh, and covers the original surface there many feet deep. If you sit\non the edge you will have ocular demonstration of this by soon getting\nyour eyes full. Thus the bank preserves its height as fast as it is\nworn away. This sand is steadily travelling westward at a rapid rate,\n\u201cmore than a hundred yards,\u201d says one writer, within the memory of\ninhabitants now living; so that in some places peat-meadows are buried\ndeep under the sand, and the peat is cut through it; and in one place a\nlarge peat-meadow has made its appearance on the shore in the bank\ncovered many feet deep, and peat has been cut there. This accounts for\nthat great pebble of peat which we saw in the surf. The old oysterman\nhad told us that many years ago he lost a \u201ccrittur\u201d by her being mired\nin a swamp near the Atlantic side east of his house, and twenty years\nago he lost the swamp itself entirely, but has since seen signs of it\nappearing on the beach. He also said that he had seen cedar stumps \u201cas\nbig as cart-wheels\u201d(!) on the bottom of the Bay, three miles off\nBillingsate Point, when leaning over the side of his boat in pleasant\nweather, and that that was dry land not long ago. Another told us that\na log canoe known to have been buried many years before on the Bay side\nat East Harbor in Truro, where the Cape is extremely narrow, appeared\nat length on the Atlantic side, the Cape having rolled over it, and an\nold woman said,\u2014\u201cNow, you see, it is true what I told you, that the\nCape is moving.\u201d\n\nThe bars along the coast shift with every storm, and in many places\nthere is occasionally none at all. We ourselves observed the effect of\na single storm with a high tide in the night, in July, 1855. It moved\nthe sand on the beach opposite the light-house to the depth of six\nfeet, and three rods in width as far as we could see north and south,\nand carried it bodily off no one knows exactly where, laying bare in\none place a large rock five feet high which was invisible before, and\nnarrowing the beach to that extent. There is usually, as I have said,\nno bathing on the back-side of the Cape, on account of the undertow,\nbut when we were there last, the sea had, three months before, cast up\na bar near this lighthouse, two miles long and ten rods wide, over\nwhich the tide did not flow, leaving a narrow cove, then a quarter of a\nmile long, between it and the shore, which afforded excellent bathing.\nThis cove had from time to time been closed up as the bar travelled\nnorthward, in one instance imprisoning four or five hundred whiting and\ncod, which died there, and the water as often turned fresh, and finally\ngave place to sand. This bar, the inhabitants assured us, might be\nwholly removed, and the water six feet deep there in two or three days.\n\nThe light-house keeper said that when the wind blowed strong on to the\nshore, the waves ate fast into the bank, but when it blowed off they\ntook no sand away; for in the former case the wind heaped up the\nsurface of the water next to the beach, and to preserve its equilibrium\na strong undertow immediately set back again into the sea which carried\nwith it the sand and whatever else was in the way, and left the beach\nhard to walk on; but in the latter case the undertow set on and carried\nthe sand with it, so that it was particularly difficult for shipwrecked\nmen to get to land when the wind blowed on to the shore, but easier\nwhen it blowed off. This undertow, meeting the next surface wave on the\nbar which itself has made, forms part of the dam over which the latter\nbreaks, as over an upright wall. The sea thus plays with the land\nholding a sand-bar in its mouth awhile before it swallows it, as a cat\nplays with a mouse; but the fatal gripe is sure to come at last. The\nsea sends its rapacious east wind to rob the land, but before the\nformer has got far with its prey, the land sends its honest west wind\nto recover some of its own. But, according to Lieutenant Davis, the\nforms, extent, and distribution of sand-bars and banks are principally\ndetermined, not by winds and waves but by tides.\n\nOur host said that you would be surprised if you were on the beach when\nthe wind blew a hurricane directly on to it, to see that none of the\ndrift-wood came ashore, but all was carried directly northward and\nparallel with the shore as fast as a man can walk, by the inshore\ncurrent, which sets strongly in that direction at flood tide. The\nstrongest swimmers also are carried along with it, and never gain an\ninch toward the beach. Even a large rock has been moved half a mile\nnorthward along-the beach. He assured us that the sea was never still\non the back-side of the Cape, but ran commonly as high as your head, so\nthat a great part of the time you could not launch a boat there, and\neven in the calmest weather the waves run six or eight feet up the\nbeach, though then you could get off on a plank. Champlain and\nPourtrincourt could not land here in 1606, on account of the swell (_la\nhoulle_), yet the savages came off to them in a canoe. In the Sieur de\nla Borde\u2019s \u201cRelation des Caraibes,\u201d my edition of which was published\nat Amsterdam in 1711, at page 530 he says:\u2014\n\n\u201cCouroumon a Caraibe, also a star [_i.e._ a god], makes the great\n_lames \u00e0 la mer_, and overturns canoes. _Lames \u00e0 la mer_ are the long\n_vagues_ which are not broken (_entrecoup\u00e9es_), and such as one sees\ncome to land all in one piece, from one end of a beach to another, so\nthat, however little wind there may be, a shallop or a canoe could\nhardly land (_aborder terre_) without turning over, or being filled\nwith water.\u201d\n\nBut on the Bay side the water even at its edge is often as smooth and\nstill as in a pond. Commonly there are no boats used along this beach.\nThere was a boat belonging to the Highland Light which the next keeper\nafter he had been there a year had not launched, though he said that\nthere was good fishing just off the shore. Generally the Life Boats\ncannot be used when needed. When the waves run very high it is\nimpossible to get a boat off, however skilfully you steer it, for it\nwill often be completely covered by the curving edge of the approaching\nbreaker as by an arch, and so filled with water, or it will be lifted\nup by its bows, turned directly over backwards, and all the contents\nspilled out. A spar thirty feet long is served in the same way.\n\nI heard of a party who went off fishing back of Wellfleet some years\nago, in two boats, in calm weather, who, when they had laden their\nboats with fish, and approached the land again, found such a swell\nbreaking on it, though there was no wind, that they were afraid to\nenter it. At first they thought to pull for Provincetown, but night was\ncoming on, and that was many miles distant. Their case seemed a\ndesperate one. As often as they approached the shore and saw the\nterrible breakers that intervened, they were deterred. In short, they\nwere thoroughly frightened. Finally, having thrown their fish\noverboard, those in one boat chose a favorable opportunity, and\nsucceeded, by skill and good luck, in reaching the land, but they were\nunwilling to take the responsibility of telling the others when to come\nin, and as the other helmsman was inexperienced, their boat was swamped\nat once, yet all managed to save themselves.\n\nMuch smaller waves soon make a boat \u201cnail-sick,\u201d as the phrase is. The\nkeeper said that after a long and strong blow there would be three\nlarge waves, each successively larger than the last, and then no large\nones for some time, and that, when they wished to land in a boat, they\ncame in on the last and largest wave. Sir Thomas Browne (as quoted in\nBrand\u2019s Popular Antiquities, p. 372), on the subject of the tenth wave\nbeing \u201cgreater or more dangerous than any other,\u201d after quoting Ovid,\u2014\n\n\u201cQui venit hic fluctus, fluctus supereminet omnes\nPosterior nono est, undecimo que prior,\u201d\u2014\n\n\nsays, \u201cWhich, notwithstanding, is evidently false; nor can it be made\nout either by observation either upon the shore or the ocean, as we\nhave with diligence explored in both. And surely in vain we expect\nregularity in the waves of the sea, or in the particular motions\nthereof, as we may in its general reciprocations, whose causes are\nconstant, and effects therefore correspondent; whereas its fluctuations\nare but motions subservient, which winds, storms, shores, shelves, and\nevery interjacency, irregulates.\u201d\n\nWe read that the Clay Pounds, were so called \u201cbecause vessels have had\nthe misfortune to be pounded against it in gales of wind,\u201d which we\nregard as a doubtful derivation. There are small ponds here, upheld by\nthe clay, which were formerly called the Clay Pits. Perhaps this, or\nClay Ponds, is the origin of the name. Water is found in the clay quite\nnear the surface; but we heard of one man who had sunk a well in the\nsand close by, \u201ctill he could see stars at noonday,\u201d without finding\nany. Over this bare Highland the wind has full sweep. Even in July it\nblows the wings over the heads of the young turkeys, which do not know\nenough to head against it; and in gales the doors and windows are blown\nin, and you must hold on to the lighthouse to prevent being blown into\nthe Atlantic. They who merely keep out on the beach in a storm in the\nwinter are sometimes rewarded by the Humane Society. If you would feel\nthe full force of a tempest, take up your residence on the top of Mount\nWashington, or at the Highland Light, in Truro.\n\nIt was said in 1794 that more vessels were cast away on the east shore\nof Truro than anywhere in Barnstable County. Notwithstanding that this\nlight-house has since been erected, after almost every storm we read of\none or more vessels wrecked here, and sometimes more than a dozen\nwrecks are visible from this point at one time. The inhabitants hear\nthe crash of vessels going to pieces as they sit round their hearths,\nand they commonly date from some memorable shipwreck. If the history of\nthis beach could be written from beginning to end, it would be a\nthrilling page in the history of commerce.\n\nTruro was settled in the year 1700 as _Dangerfield_. This was a very\nappropriate name, for I afterward read on a monument in the graveyard,\nnear Pamet River, the following inscription:\u2014\n\nSacred\nto the memory of\n57 citizens of Truro,\nwho were lost in seven\nvessels, which\nfoundered at sea in\nthe memorable gale\nof Oct. 3d, 1841.\n\n\nTheir names and ages by families were recorded on different sides of\nthe stone. They are said to have been lost on George\u2019s Bank, and I was\ntold that only one vessel drifted ashore on the backside of the Cape,\nwith the boys locked into the cabin and drowned. It is said that the\nhomes of all were \u201cwithin a circuit of two miles.\u201d Twenty-eight\ninhabitants of Dennis were lost in the same gale; and I read that \u201cin\none day, immediately after this storm, nearly or quite one hundred\nbodies were taken up and buried on Cape Cod.\u201d The Truro Insurance\nCompany failed for want of skippers to take charge of its vessels. But\nthe surviving inhabitants went a-fishing again the next year as usual.\nI found that it would not do to speak of shipwrecks there, for almost\nevery family has lost some of its members at sea. \u201cWho lives in that\nhouse?\u201d I inquired. \u201cThree widows,\u201d was the reply. The stranger and the\ninhabitant view the shore with very different eyes. The former may have\ncome to see and admire the ocean in a storm; but the latter looks on it\nas the scene where his nearest relatives were wrecked. When I remarked\nto an old wrecker partially blind, who was sitting on the edge of the\nbank smoking a pipe, which he had just lit with a match of dried\nbeach-grass, that I supposed he liked to hear the sound of the surf, he\nanswered: \u201cNo, I do not like to hear the sound of the surf.\u201d He had\nlost at least one son in \u201cthe memorable gale,\u201d and could tell many a\ntale of the shipwrecks which he had witnessed there.\n\nIn the year 1717, a noted pirate named Bellamy was led on to the bar\noff Wellfleet by the captain of a _snow_ which he had taken, to whom he\nhad offered his vessel again if he would pilot him into Provincetown\nHarbor. Tradition says that the latter threw over a burning tar-barrel\nin the night, which drifted ashore, and the pirates followed it. A\nstorm coming on, their whole fleet was wrecked, and more than a hundred\ndead bodies lay along the shore. Six who escaped shipwreck were\nexecuted. \u201cAt times to this day\u201d (1793), says the historian of\nWellfleet, \u201cthere are King William and Queen Mary\u2019s coppers picked up,\nand pieces of silver called cob-money. The violence of the seas moves\nthe sands on the outer bar, so that at times the iron caboose of the\nship [that is, Bellamy\u2019s] at low ebbs has been seen.\u201d Another tells us\nthat, \u201cFor many years after this shipwreck, a man of a very singular\nand frightful aspect used every spring and autumn to be seen travelling\non the Cape, who was supposed to have been one of Bellamy\u2019s crew. The\npresumption is that he went to some place where money had been secreted\nby the pirates, to get such a supply as his exigencies required. When\nhe died, many pieces of gold were found in a girdle which he constantly\nwore.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: An old wrecker at home]\n\nAs I was walking on the beach here in my last visit, looking for shells\nand pebbles, just after that storm, which I have mentioned as moving\nthe sand to a great depth, not knowing but I might find some cob-money,\nI did actually pick up a French crown piece, worth about a dollar and\nsix cents, near high-water mark, on the still moist sand, just under\nthe abrupt, caving base of the bank. It was of a dark slate color, and\nlooked like a flat pebble, but still bore a very distinct and handsome\nhead of Louis XV., and the usual legend on the reverse. _Sit Nomen\nDomini Benedictum_ (Blessed be the Name of the Lord), a pleasing\nsentiment to read in the sands of the sea-shore, whatever it might be\nstamped on, and I also made out the date, 1741. Of course, I thought at\nfirst that it was that same old button which I have found so many\ntimes, but my knife soon showed the silver. Afterward, rambling on the\nbars at low tide, I cheated my companion by holding up round shells\n(_Scutell\u00e6_) between my fingers, whereupon he quickly stripped and came\noff to me.\n\nIn the Revolution, a British ship of war called the Somerset was\nwrecked near the Clay Pounds, and all on board, some hundreds in\nnumber, were taken prisoners. My informant said that he had never seen\nany mention of this in the histories, but that at any rate he knew of a\nsilver watch, which one of those prisoners by accident left there,\nwhich was still going to tell the story. But this event is noticed by\nsome writers.\n\nThe next summer I saw a sloop from Chatham dragging for anchors and\nchains just off this shore. She had her boats out at the work while\nshe shuffled about on various tacks, and, when anything was found, drew\nup to hoist it on board. It is a singular employment, at which men are\nregularly hired and paid for their industry, to hunt to-day in pleasant\nweather for anchors which have been lost,\u2014the sunken faith and hope of\nmariners, to which they trusted in vain; now, perchance, it is the\nrusty one of some old pirate\u2019s ship or Norman fisherman, whose cable\nparted here two hundred years ago; and now the best bower anchor of a\nCanton or a California ship, which has gone about her business. If the\nroadsteads of the spiritual ocean could be thus dragged, what rusty\nflukes of hope deceived and parted chain-cables of faith might again be\nwindlassed aboard! enough to sink the finder\u2019s craft, or stock new\nnavies to the end of time. The bottom of the sea is strewn with\nanchors, some deeper and some shallower, and alternately covered and\nuncovered by the sand, perchance with a small length of iron cable\nstill attached,\u2014to which where is the other end? So many unconcluded\ntales to be continued another time. So, if we had diving-bells adapted\nto the spiritual deeps, we should see anchors with their cables\nattached, as thick as eels in vinegar, all wriggling vainly toward\ntheir holding-ground. But that is not treasure for us which another man\nhas lost; rather it is for us to seek what no other man has found or\ncan find,\u2014not be Chatham men, dragging for anchors.\n\nThe annals of this voracious beach! who could write them, unless it\nwere a shipwrecked sailor? How many who have seen it have seen it only\nin the midst of danger and distress, the last strip of earth which\ntheir mortal eyes beheld. Think of the amount of suffering which a\nsingle strand has witnessed. The ancients would have represented it as\na sea-monster with open jaws, more terrible than Scylla and Charybdis.\nAn inhabitant of Truro told me that about a fortnight after the _St.\nJohn_ was wrecked at Cohasset he found two bodies on the shore at the\nClay Pounds. They were those of a man, and a corpulent woman. The man\nhad thick boots on, though his head was off, but \u201cit was alongside.\u201d It\ntook the finder some weeks to get over the sight. Perhaps they were man\nand wife, and whom God had joined the ocean currents had not put\nasunder. Yet by what slight accidents at first may they have been\nassociated in their drifting. Some of the bodies of those passengers\nwere picked up far out at sea, boxed up and sunk; some brought ashore\nand buried. There are more consequences to a shipwreck than the\nunderwriters notice. The Gulf Stream may return some to their native\nshores, or drop them in some out-of-the-way cave of Ocean, where time\nand the elements will write new riddles with their bones.\u2014But to return\nto land again.\n\nIn this bank, above the clay, I counted in the summer, two hundred\nholes of the Bank Swallow within a space six rods long, and there were\nat least one thousand old birds within three times that distance,\ntwittering over the surf. I had never associated them in my thoughts\nwith the beach before. One little boy who had been a-birds-nesting had\ngot eighty swallows\u2019 eggs for his share! Tell it not to the Humane\nSociety. There were many young birds on the clay beneath, which had\ntumbled out and died. Also there were many Crow-blackbirds hopping\nabout in the dry fields, and the Upland Plover were breeding close by\nthe light-house. The keeper had once cut off one\u2019s wing while mowing,\nas she sat on her eggs there. This is also a favorite resort for\ngunners in the fall to shoot the Golden Plover. As around the shores of\na pond are seen devil\u2019s-needles, butterflies, etc., so here, to my\nsurprise, I saw at the same season great devil\u2019s-needles of a size\nproportionably larger, or nearly as big as my finger, incessantly\ncoasting up and down the edge of the bank, and butterflies also were\nhovering over it, and I never saw so many dorr-bugs and beetles of\nvarious kinds as strewed the beach. They had apparently flown over the\nbank in the night, and could not get up again, and some had perhaps\nfallen into the sea and were washed ashore. They may have been in part\nattracted by the light-house lamps.\n\nThe Clay Pounds are a more fertile tract than usual. We saw some fine\npatches of roots and corn here. As generally on the Cape, the plants\nhad little stalk or leaf, but ran remarkably to seed. The corn was\nhardly more than half as high as in the interior, yet the ears were\nlarge and full, and one farmer told us that he could raise forty\nbushels on an acre without manure, and sixty with it. The heads of the\nrye also were remarkably large. The Shadbush (_Amelanchier_), Beach\nPlums, and Blueberries (_Vaccinium Pennsylvanicum_), like the\napple-trees and oaks, were very dwarfish, spreading over the sand, but\nat the same time very fruitful. The blueberry was but an inch or two\nhigh, and its fruit often rested on the ground, so that you did not\nsuspect the presence of the bushes, even on those bare hills, until you\nwere treading on them. I thought that this fertility must be owing\nmainly to the abundance of moisture in the atmosphere, for I observed\nthat what little grass there was was remarkably laden with dew in the\nmorning, and in summer dense imprisoning fogs frequently last till\nmidday, turning one\u2019s beard into a wet napkin about his throat, and the\noldest inhabitant may lose his way within a stone\u2019s throw of his house\nor be obliged to follow the beach for a guide. The brick house attached\nto the light-house was exceedingly damp at that season, and,\nwriting-paper lost all its stiffness in it. It was impossible to dry\nyour towel after bathing, or to press flowers without their mildewing.\nThe air was so moist that we rarely wished to drink, though we could at\nall times taste the salt on our lips. Salt was rarely used at table,\nand our host told us that his cattle invariably refused it when it was\noffered them, they got so much with their grass and at every breath,\nbut he said that a sick horse or one just from the country would\nsometimes take a hearty draught of salt water, and seemed to like it\nand be the better for it.\n\nIt was surprising to see how much water was contained in the terminal\nbud of the sea-side golden-rod, standing in the sand early in July, and\nalso how turnips, beets, carrots, etc., flourished even in pure sand. A\nman travelling by the shore near there not long before us noticed\nsomething green growing in the pure sand of the beach, just at\nhigh-water mark, and on approaching found it to be a bed of beets\nflourishing vigorously, probably from seed washed out of the\n_Franklin_. Also beets and turnips came up in the sea-weed used for\nmanure in many parts of the Cape. This suggests how various plants may\nhave been dispersed over the world to distant islands and continents.\nVessels, with seeds in their cargoes, destined for particular ports,\nwhere perhaps they were not needed, have been cast away on desolate\nislands, and though their crews perished, some of their seeds have been\npreserved. Out of many kinds a few would find a soil and climate\nadapted to them, become naturalized, and perhaps drive out the native\nplants at last, and so fit the land for the habitation of man. It is an\nill wind that blows nobody any good, and for the time lamentable\nshipwrecks may thus contribute a new vegetable to a continent\u2019s stock,\nand prove on the whole a lasting blessing to its inhabitants. Or winds\nand currents might effect the same without the intervention of man.\nWhat indeed are the various succulent plants which grow on the beach\nbut such beds of beets and turnips, sprung originally from seeds which\nperhaps were cast on the waters for this end, though we do not know the\n_Franklin_ which they came out of? In ancient times some Mr. Bell (?)\nwas sailing this way in his ark with seeds of rocket, salt-wort,\nsandwort, beachgrass, samphire, bayberry, poverty-grass, etc., all\nnicely labelled with directions, intending to establish a nursery\nsomewhere; and did not a nursery get established, though he thought\nthat he had failed?\n\nAbout the light-house I observed in the summer the pretty _Polygala\npolygama_, spreading ray-wise flat on the ground, white pasture\nthistles (_Cirsium pumilum_), and amid the shrubbery the _Smilax\nglauca_, which is commonly said not to grow so far north; near the edge\nof the banks about half a mile southward, the broom crow-berry\n(_Empetrum Conradii_), for which Plymouth is the only locality in\nMassachusetts usually named, forms pretty green mounds four or five\nfeet in diameter by one foot high,\u2014soft, springy beds for the wayfarer.\nI saw it afterward in Provincetown, but prettiest of all the scarlet\npimpernel, or poor-man\u2019s weather-glass (_Anagallis-arvensis_), greets\nyou in fair weather on almost every square yard of sand. From Yarmouth,\nI have received the _Chrysopsis falcata_ (golden aster), and _Vaccinium\nstamineum_ (Deerberry or Squaw Huckleberry), with fruit not edible,\nsometimes as large as a cranberry (Sept. 7).\n\n[Illustration: The Highland Light]\n\nThe Highland Light-house,[1] where we were staying, is a\nsubstantial-looking building of brick, painted white, and surmounted by\nan iron cap. Attached to it is the dwelling of the keeper, one story\nhigh, also of brick, and built by government. As we were going to spend\nthe night in a light-house, we wished to make the most of so novel an\nexperience, and therefore told our host that we would like to accompany\nhim when he went to light up. At rather early candle-light he lighted a\nsmall Japan lamp, allowing it to smoke rather more than we like on\nordinary occasions, and told us to follow him. He led the way first\nthrough his bedroom, which was placed nearest to the light-house, and\nthen through a long, narrow, covered passage-way, between whitewashed\nwalls like a prison entry, into the lower part of the light-house,\nwhere many great butts of oil were arranged around; thence we ascended\nby a winding and open iron stairway, with a steadily increasing scent\nof oil and lamp-smoke, to a trap-door in an iron floor, and through\nthis into the lantern. It was a neat building, with everything in\napple-pie order, and no danger of anything rusting there for want of\noil. The light consisted of fifteen argand lamps, placed within smooth\nconcave reflectors twenty-one inches in diameter, and arranged in two\nhorizontal circles one above the other, facing every way excepting\ndirectly down the Cape. These were surrounded, at a distance of two or\nthree feet, by large plate-glass windows, which defied the storms, with\niron sashes, on which rested the iron cap. All the iron work, except\nthe floor, was painted white. And thus the light-house was completed.\nWe walked slowly round in that narrow space as the keeper lighted each\nlamp in succession, conversing with him at the same moment that many a\nsailor on the deep witnessed the lighting of the Highland Light. His\nduty was to fill and trim and light his lamps, and keep bright the\nreflectors. He filled them every morning, and trimmed them commonly\nonce in the course of the night. He complained of the quality of the\noil which was furnished. This house consumes about eight hundred\ngallons in a year, which cost not far from one dollar a gallon; but\nperhaps a few lives would be saved if better oil were provided. Another\nlight-house keeper said that the same proportion of winter-strained oil\nwas sent to the southernmost light-house in the Union as to the most\nnorthern. Formerly, when this light-house had windows with small and\nthin panes, a severe storm would sometimes break the glass, and then\nthey were obliged to put up a wooden shutter in haste to save their\nlights and reflectors,\u2014and sometimes in tempests, when the mariner\nstood most in need of their guidance, they had thus nearly converted\nthe light-house into a dark lantern, which emitted only a few feeble\nrays, and those commonly on the land or lee side. He spoke of the\nanxiety and sense of responsibility which he felt in cold and stormy\nnights in the winter; when he knew that many a poor fellow was\ndepending on him, and his lamps burned dimly, the oil being chilled.\nSometimes he was obliged to warm the oil in a kettle in his house at\nmidnight, and fill his lamps over again,\u2014for he could not have a fire\nin the light-house, it produced such a sweat on the windows. His\nsuccessor told me that he could not keep too hot a fire in such a case.\nAll this because the oil was poor. The government lighting the mariners\non its wintry coast with summer-strained oil, to save expense! That\nwere surely a summer-strained mercy.\n\nThis keeper\u2019s successor, who kindly entertained me the next year stated\nthat one extremely cold night, when this and all the neighboring lights\nwere burning summer oil, but he had been provident enough to reserve a\nlittle winter oil against emergencies, he was waked up with anxiety,\nand found that his oil was congealed, and his lights almost\nextinguished; and when, after many hours\u2019 exertion, he had succeeded in\nreplenishing his reservoirs with winter oil at the wick end, and with\ndifficulty had made them burn, he looked out and found that the other\nlights in the neighborhood, which were usually visible to him, had gone\nout, and he heard afterward that the Pamet River and Billingsgate\nLights also had been extinguished.\n\nOur host said that the frost, too, on the windows caused him much\ntrouble, and in sultry summer nights the moths covered them and dimmed\nhis lights; sometimes even small birds flew against the thick plate\nglass, and were found on the ground beneath in the morning with their\nnecks broken. In the spring of 1855 he found nineteen small\nyellow-birds, perhaps goldfinches or myrtle-birds, thus lying dead\naround the light-house; and sometimes in the fall he had seen where a\ngolden plover had struck the glass in the night, and left the down and\nthe fatty part of its breast on it.\n\nThus he struggled, by every method, to keep his light shining before\nmen. Surely the light-house keeper has a responsible, if an easy,\noffice. When his lamp goes out, he goes out; or, at most, only one such\naccident is pardoned.\n\nI thought it a pity that some poor student did not live there, to\nprofit by all that light, since he would not rob the mariner. \u201cWell,\u201d\nhe said, \u201cI do sometimes come up here and read the newspaper when they\nare noisy down below.\u201d Think of fifteen argand lamps to read the\nnewspaper by! Government oil!\u2014light, enough, perchance, to read the\nConstitution by! I thought that he should read nothing less than his\nBible by that light. I had a classmate who fitted for college by the\nlamps of a light-house, which was more light, we think, than the\nUniversity afforded.\n\nWhen we had come down and walked a dozen rods from the light-house, we\nfound that we could not get the full strength of its light on the\nnarrow strip of land between it and the shore, being too low for the\nfocus, and we saw only so many feeble and rayless stars; but at forty\nrods inland we could see to read, though we were still indebted to only\none lamp. Each reflector sent forth a separate \u201cfan\u201d of light,\u2014one\nshone on the windmill, and one in the hollow, while the intervening\nspaces were in shadow. This light is said to be visible twenty nautical\nmiles and more from an observer fifteen feet above the level of the\nsea. We could see the revolving light at Race Point, the end of the\nCape, about nine miles distant, and also the light on Long Point, at\nthe entrance of Provincetown Harbor, and one of the distant Plymouth\nHarbor Lights, across the Bay, nearly in a range with the last, like a\nstar in the horizon. The keeper thought that the other Plymouth Light\nwas concealed by being exactly in a range with the Long Point Light. He\ntold us that the mariner was sometimes led astray by a mackerel\nfisher\u2019s lantern, who was afraid of being run down in the night, or\neven by a cottager\u2019s light, mistaking them for some well-known light on\nthe coast, and, when he discovered his mistake, was wont to curse the\nprudent fisher or the wakeful cottager without reason.\n\nThough it was once declared that Providence placed this mass of clay\nhere on purpose to erect a light-house on, the keeper said that the\nlight-house should have been erected half a mile farther south, where\nthe coast begins to bend, and where the light could be seen at the same\ntime with the Nauset Lights, and distinguished from them. They now talk\nof building one there. It happens that the present one is the more\nuseless now, so near the extremity of the Cape, because other\nlight-houses have since been erected there.\n\nAmong the many regulations of the Light-house Board, hanging against\nthe wall here, many of them excellent, perhaps, if there were a\nregiment stationed here to attend to them, there is one requiring the\nkeeper to keep an account of the number of vessels which pass his light\nduring the day. But there are a hundred vessels in sight at once,\nsteering in all directions, many on the very verge of the horizon, and\nhe must have more eyes than Argus, and be a good deal farther-sighted,\nto tell which are passing his light. It is an employment in some\nrespects best suited to the habits of the gulls which coast up and down\nhere, and circle over the sea.\n\nI was told by the next keeper, that on the 8th of June following, a\nparticularly clear and beautiful morning, he rose about half an hour\nbefore sunrise, and having a little time to spare, for his custom was\nto extinguish his lights at sunrise, walked down toward the shore to\nsee what he might find. When he got to the edge of the bank he looked\nup, and, to his astonishment, saw the sun rising, and already part way\nabove the horizon. Thinking that his clock was wrong, he made haste\nback, and though it was still too early by the clock, extinguished his\nlamps, and when he had got through and come down, he looked out the\nwindow, and, to his still greater astonishment, saw the sun just where\nit was before, two-thirds above the horizon. He showed me where its\nrays fell on the wall across the room. He proceeded to make a fire, and\nwhen he had done, there was the sun still at the same height.\nWhereupon, not trusting to his own eyes any longer, he called up his\nwife to look at it, and she saw it also. There were vessels in sight on\nthe ocean, and their crews, too, he said, must have seen it, for its\nrays fell on them. It remained at that height for about fifteen minutes\nby the clock, and then rose as usual, and nothing else extraordinary\nhappened during that day. Though accustomed to the coast, he had never\nwitnessed nor heard of such a phenomenon before. I suggested that there\nmight have been a cloud in the horizon invisible to him, which rose\nwith the sun, and his clock was only as accurate as the average; or\nperhaps, as he denied the possibility of this, it was such a looming of\nthe sun as is said to occur at Lake Superior and elsewhere. Sir John\nFranklin, for instance, says in his Narrative, that when he was on the\nshore of the Polar Sea, the horizontal refraction varied so much one\nmorning that \u201cthe upper limb of the sun twice appeared at the horizon\nbefore it finally rose.\u201d\n\nHe certainly must be a son of Aurora to whom the sun looms, when there\nare so many millions to whom it _glooms_ rather, or who never see it\ntill an hour _after_ it has risen. But it behooves us old stagers to\nkeep our lamps trimmed and burning to the last, and not trust to the\nsun\u2019s looming.\n\nThis keeper remarked that the centre of the flame should be exactly\nopposite the centre of the reflectors, and that accordingly, if he was\nnot careful to turn down his wicks in the morning, the sun falling on\nthe reflectors on the south side of the building would set fire to\nthem, like a burning-glass, in the coldest day, and he would look up at\nnoon and see them all lighted! When your light is ready to give light,\nit is readiest to receive it, and the sun will light it. His successor\nsaid that he had never known them to blaze in such a case, but merely\nto smoke.\n\nI saw that this was a place of wonders. In a sea turn or shallow fog\nwhile I was there the next summer, it being clear overhead, the edge of\nthe bank twenty rods distant, appeared like a mountain pasture in the\nhorizon. I was completely deceived by it, and I could then understand\nwhy mariners sometimes ran ashore in such cases, especially in the\nnight, supposing it to be far away, though they could see the land.\nOnce since this, being in a large oyster boat two or three hundred\nmiles from here, in a dark night, when there was a thin veil of mist on\nland and water, we came so near to running on to the land before our\nskipper was aware of it, that the first warning was my hearing the\nsound of the surf under my elbow. I could almost have jumped ashore,\nand we were obliged to go about very suddenly to prevent striking. The\ndistant light for which we were steering, supposing it a light-house\nfive or six miles off, came through the cracks of a fisherman\u2019s bunk\nnot more than six rods distant.\n\nThe keeper entertained us handsomely in his solitary little ocean\nhouse. He was a man of singular patience and intelligence, who, when\nour queries struck him, rung as clear as a bell in response. The\nlight-house lamps a few feet distant shone full into my chamber, and\nmade it as bright as day, so I knew exactly how the Highland Light bore\nall that night, and I was in no danger of being wrecked. Unlike the\nlast, this was as still as a summer night. I thought, as I lay there,\nhalf awake and half asleep, looking upward through the window at the\nlights above my head, how many sleepless eyes from far out on the Ocean\nstream\u2014mariners of all nations spinning their yarns through the various\nwatches of the night\u2014were directed toward my couch.\n\n [1] The light-house has since been rebuilt, and shows a _Fresnel_\n light.\n\n\n\n\nIX\nTHE SEA AND THE DESERT\n\n\nThe light-house lamps were still burning, though now with a silvery\nlustre, when I rose to see the sun come out of the Ocean; for he still\nrose eastward of us; but I was convinced that he must have come out of\na dry bed beyond that stream, though he seemed to come out of the\nwater.\n\n\u201cThe sun once more touched the fields,\nMounting to heaven from the fair flowing\nDeep-running Ocean.\u201d\n\n\nNow we saw countless sails of mackerel fishers abroad on the deep, one\nfleet in the north just pouring round the Cape, another standing down\ntoward Chatham, and our host\u2019s son went off to join some lagging member\nof the first which had not yet left the Bay.\n\nBefore we left the light-house we were obliged to anoint our shoes\nfaithfully with tallow, for walking on the beach, in the salt water and\nthe sand, had turned them red and crisp. To counterbalance this, I have\nremarked that the seashore, even where muddy, as it is not here, is\nsingularly clean; for notwithstanding the spattering of the water and\nmud and squirting of the clams while walking to and from the boat, your\nbest black pants retain no stain nor dirt, such as they would acquire\nfrom walking in the country.\n\nWe have heard that a few days after this, when the Provincetown Bank\nwas robbed, speedy emissaries from Provincetown made particular\ninquiries concerning us at this light-house. Indeed, they traced us all\nthe way down the Cape, and concluded that we came by this unusual route\ndown the back-side and on foot, in order that we might discover a way\nto get off with our booty when we had committed the robbery. The Cape\nis so long and narrow, and so bare withal, that it is wellnigh\nimpossible for a stranger to visit it without the knowledge of its\ninhabitants generally, unless he is wrecked on to it in the night. So,\nwhen this robbery occurred, all their suspicions seem to have at once\ncentred on us two travellers who had just passed down it. If we had not\nchanced to leave the Cape so soon, we should probably have been\narrested. The real robbers were two young men from Worcester County who\ntravelled with a centre-bit, and are said to have done their work very\nneatly. But the only bank that we pried into was the great Cape Cod\nsand-bank, and we robbed it only of an old French crown piece, some\nshells and pebbles, and the materials of this story.\n\nAgain we took to the beach for another day (October 13), walking along\nthe shore of the resounding sea, determined to get it into us. We\nwished to associate with the Ocean until it lost the pond-like look\nwhich it wears to a country-man. We still thought that we could see the\nother side. Its surface was still more sparkling than the day before,\nand we beheld \u201cthe countless smilings of the ocean waves\u201d; though some\nof them were pretty broad grins, for still the wind blew and the\nbillows broke in foam along the beach. The nearest beach to us on the\nother side, whither we looked, due east, was on the coast of Galicia,\nin Spain, whose capital is Santiago, though by old poets\u2019 reckoning it\nshould have been Atlantis or the Hesperides; but heaven is found to be\nfarther west now. At first we were abreast of that part of Portugal\n_entre Douro e Mino_, and then Galicia and the port of Pontevedra\nopened to us as we walked along; but we did not enter, the breakers ran\nso high. The bold headland of Cape Finisterre, a little north of east,\njutted toward us next, with its vain brag, for we flung back,\u2014\u201cHere is\nCape Cod,\u2014Cape Land\u2019s-Beginning.\u201d A little indentation toward the\nnorth,\u2014for the land loomed to our imaginations by a common mirage,\u2014we\nknew was the Bay of Biscay, and we sang:\u2014\n\n\u201cThere we lay, till next day.\n    In the Bay of Biscay O!\u201d\n\n\nA little south of east was Palos, where Columbus weighed anchor, and\nfarther yet the pillars which Hercules set up; concerning which when we\ninquired at the top of our voices what was written on them,\u2014for we had\nthe morning sun in our faces, and could not see distinctly,\u2014the\ninhabitants shouted _Ne plus ultra_ (no more beyond), but the wind bore\nto us the truth only, _plus ultra_ (more beyond), and over the Bay\nwestward was echoed _ultra_ (beyond). We spoke to them through the surf\nabout the Far West, the true Hesperia, \u1f15\u03c9 \u03c0\u03ad\u03c1\u03b1\u03c2 or end of the day, the\nThis Side Sundown, where the sun was extinguished in the _Pacific_, and\nwe advised them to pull up stakes and plant those pillars of theirs on\nthe shore of California, whither all our folks were gone,\u2014the only _ne_\nplus ultra now. Whereat they looked crestfallen on their cliffs, for we\nhad taken the wind out of all their sails.\n\nWe could not perceive that any of their leavings washed up here, though\nwe picked up a child\u2019s toy, a small dismantled boat, which may have\nbeen lost at Pontevedra.\n\nThe Cape became narrower and narrower as we approached its wrist\nbetween Truro and Provincetown, and the shore inclined more decidedly\nto the west. At the head of East Harbor Creek, the Atlantic is\nseparated but by half a dozen rods of sand from the tide-waters of the\nBay. From the Clay Pounds the bank flatted off for the last ten miles\nto the extremity at Race Point, though the highest parts, which are\ncalled \u201cislands\u201d from their appearance at a distance on the sea, were\nstill seventy or eighty feet above the Atlantic, and afforded a good\nview of the latter, as well as a constant view of the Bay, there being\nno trees nor a hill sufficient to interrupt it. Also the sands began to\ninvade the land more and more, until finally they had entire possession\nfrom sea to sea, at the narrowest part. For three or four miles between\nTruro and Provincetown there were no inhabitants from shore to shore,\nand there were but three or four houses for twice that distance.\n\nAs we plodded along, either by the edge of the ocean, where the sand\nwas rapidly drinking up the last wave that wet it, or over the\nsand-hills of the bank, the mackerel fleet continued to pour round the\nCape north of us, ten or fifteen miles distant, in countless numbers,\nschooner after schooner, till they made a city on the water. They were\nso thick that many appeared to be afoul of one another; now all\nstanding on this tack, now on that. We saw how well the New-Englanders\nhad followed up Captain John Smith\u2019s suggestions with regard to the\nfisheries, made in 1616,\u2014to what a pitch they had carried \u201cthis\ncontemptible trade of fish,\u201d as he significantly styles it, and were\nnow equal to the Hollanders whose example he holds up for the English\nto emulate; notwithstanding that \u201cin this faculty,\u201d as he says, \u201cthe\nformer are so naturalized, and of their vents so certainly acquainted,\nas there is no likelihood they will ever be paralleled, having two or\nthree thousand busses, flat-bottoms, sword-pinks, todes, and such like,\nthat breeds them sailors, mariners, soldiers, and merchants, never to\nbe wrought out of that trade and fit for any other.\u201d We thought that it\nwould take all these names and more to describe the numerous craft\nwhich we saw. Even then, some years before our \u201crenowned sires\u201d with\ntheir \u201cpeerless dames\u201d stepped on Plymouth Rock, he wrote,\n\u201cNewfoundland doth yearly freight neir eight hundred sail of ships with\na silly, lean, skinny, poor-john, and cor fish,\u201d though all their\nsupplies must be annually transported from Europe. Why not plant a\ncolony here then, and raise those supplies on the spot? \u201cOf all the\nfour parts of the world,\u201d says he, \u201cthat I have yet seen, not\ninhabited, could I have but means to transport a colony, I would rather\nlive here than anywhere. And if it did not maintain itself, were we but\nonce indifferently well fitted, let us starve.\u201d Then \u201cfishing before\nyour doors,\u201d you \u201cmay every night sleep quietly ashore, with good cheer\nand what fires you will, or, when you please, with your wives and\nfamily.\u201d Already he anticipates \u201cthe new towns in New England in memory\nof their old,\u201d\u2014and who knows what may be discovered in the \u201cheart and\nentrails\u201d of the land, \u201cseeing even the very edges,\u201d etc., etc.\n\n[Illustration: Towing along shore]\n\nAll this has been accomplished, and more, and where is Holland now?\nVerily the Dutch have taken it. There was no long interval between the\nsuggestion of Smith and the eulogy of Burke.\n\nStill one after another the mackerel schooners hove in sight round the\nhead of the Cape, \u201cwhitening all the sea road,\u201d and we watched each one\nfor a moment with an undivided interest. It seemed a pretty sport. Here\nin the country it is only a few idle boys or loafers that go a-fishing\non a rainy day; but there it appeared as if every able-bodied man and\nhelpful boy in the Bay had gone out on a pleasure excursion in their\nyachts, and all would at last land and have a chowder on the Cape. The\ngazetteer tells you gravely how many of the men and boys of these towns\nare engaged in the whale, cod, and mackerel fishery, how many go to the\nbanks of Newfoundland, or the coast of Labrador, the Straits of Belle\nIsle or the Bay of Chaleurs (Shalore the sailors call it); as if I were\nto reckon up the number of boys in Concord who are engaged during the\nsummer in the perch, pickerel, bream, hornpout, and shiner fishery, of\nwhich no one keeps the statistics,\u2014though I think that it is pursued\nwith as much profit to the moral and intellectual man (or boy), and\ncertainly with less danger to the physical one.\n\nOne of my playmates, who was apprenticed to a printer, and was somewhat\nof a wag, asked his master one afternoon if he might go a-fishing, and\nhis master consented. He was gone three months. When he came back, he\nsaid that he had been to the Grand Banks, and went to setting type\nagain as if only an afternoon had intervened.\n\nI confess I was surprised to find that so many men spent their whole\nday, ay, their whole lives almost, a-fishing. It is remarkable what a\nserious business men make of getting their dinners, and how universally\nshiftlessness and a grovelling taste take refuge in a merely ant-like\nindustry. Better go without your dinner, I thought, than be thus\neverlastingly fishing for it like a cormorant. Of course, _viewed from\nthe shore_, our pursuits in the country appear not a whit less\nfrivolous.\n\nI once sailed three miles on a mackerel cruise myself. It was a Sunday\nevening after a very warm day in which there had been frequent\nthunder-showers, and I had walked along the shore from Cohasset to\nDuxbury. I wished to get over from the last place to Clark\u2019s Island,\nbut no boat could stir, they said, at that stage of the tide, they\nbeing left high on the mud. At length I learned that the tavern-keeper,\nWinsor, was going out mackerelling with seven men that evening, and\nwould take me. When there had been due delay, we one after another\nstraggled down to the shore in a leisurely manner, as if waiting for\nthe tide still, and in India-rubber boots, or carrying our shoes in our\nhands, waded to the boats, each of the crew bearing an armful of wood,\nand one a bucket of new potatoes besides. Then they resolved that each\nshould bring one more armful of wood, and that would be enough. They\nhad already got a barrel of water, and had some more in the schooner.\nWe shoved the boats a dozen rods over the mud and water till they\nfloated, then rowing half a mile to the vessel climbed aboard, and\nthere we were in a mackerel schooner, a fine stout vessel of\nforty-three tons, whose name I forget. The baits were not dry on the\nhooks. There was the mill in which they ground the mackerel, and the\ntrough to hold it, and the long-handled dipper to cast it overboard\nwith; and already in the harbor we saw the surface rippled with schools\nof small mackerel, the real _Scomber vernalis_. The crew proceeded\nleisurely to weigh anchor and raise their two sails, there being a fair\nbut very slight wind;\u2014and the sun now setting clear and shining on the\nvessel after the thundershowers, I thought that I could not have\ncommenced the voyage under more favorable auspices. They had four\ndories and commonly fished in them, else they fished on the starboard\nside aft where their fines hung ready, two to a man. The boom swung\nround once or twice, and Winsor cast overboard the foul juice of\nmackerel mixed with rain-water which remained in his trough, and then\nwe gathered about the helmsman and told stories. I remember that the\ncompass was affected by iron in its neighborhood and varied a few\ndegrees. There was one among us just returned from California, who was\nnow going as passenger for his health and amusement. They expected to\nbe gone about a week, to begin fishing the next morning, and to carry\ntheir fish fresh to Boston. They landed me at Clark\u2019s Island, where the\nPilgrims landed, for my companions wished to get some milk for the\nvoyage. But I had seen the whole of it. The rest was only going to sea\nand catching the mackerel. Moreover, it was as well that I did not\nremain with them, considering the small quantity of supplies they had\ntaken.\n\nNow I saw the mackerel fleet _on its fishing-ground_, though I was not\nat first aware of it. So my experience was complete.\n\nIt was even more cold and windy to-day than before, and we were\nfrequently glad to take shelter behind a sand-hill. None of the\nelements were resting. On the beach there is a ceaseless activity,\nalways something going on, in storm and in calm, winter and summer,\nnight and day. Even the sedentary man here enjoys a breadth of view\nwhich is almost equivalent to motion. In clear weather the laziest may\nlook across the Bay as far as Plymouth at a glance, or over the\nAtlantic as far as human vision reaches, merely raising his eyelids; or\nif he is too lazy to look after all, he can hardly help hearing the\nceaseless dash and roar of the breakers. The restless ocean may at any\nmoment cast up a whale or a wrecked vessel at your feet. All the\nreporters in the world, the most rapid stenographers, could not report\nthe news it brings. No creature could move slowly where there was so\nmuch life around. The few wreckers were either going or coming, and the\nships and the sand-pipers, and the screaming gulls overhead; nothing\nstood still but the shore. The little beach-birds trotted past close to\nthe water\u2019s edge, or paused but an instant to swallow their food,\nkeeping time with the elements. I wondered how they ever got used to\nthe sea, that they ventured so near the waves. Such tiny inhabitants\nthe land brought forth! except one fox. And what could a fox do,\nlooking on the Atlantic from that high bank? What is the sea to a fox?\nSometimes we met a wrecker with his cart and dog,\u2014and his dog\u2019s faint\nbark at us wayfarers, heard through the roaring of the surf, sounded\nridiculously faint. To see a little trembling dainty-footed cur stand\non the margin of the ocean, and ineffectually bark at a beach-bird,\namid the roar of the Atlantic! Come with design to bark at a whale,\nperchance! That sound will do for farmyards. All the dogs looked out of\nplace there, naked and as if shuddering at the vastness; and I thought\nthat they would not have been there had it not been for the countenance\nof their masters. Still less could you think of a cat bending her steps\nthat way, and shaking her wet foot over the Atlantic; yet even this\nhappens sometimes, they tell me. In summer I saw the tender young of\nthe Piping Plover, like chickens just hatched, mere pinches of down on\ntwo legs, running in troops, with a faint peep, along the edge of the\nwaves. I used to see packs of half-wild dogs haunting the lonely beach\non the south shore of Staten Island, in New York Bay, for the sake of\nthe carrion there cast up; and I remember that once, when for a long\ntime I had heard a furious barking in the tall grass of the marsh, a\npack of half a dozen large dogs burst forth on to the beach, pursuing a\nlittle one which ran straight to me for protection, and I afforded it\nwith some stones, though at some risk to myself; but the next day the\nlittle one was the first to bark at me. under these circumstances I\ncould not but remember the words of the poet:\u2014\n\n\u201cBlow, blow, thou winter wind,\nThou art not so unkind\n    As _his_ ingratitude;\nThy tooth is not so keen,\nBecause thou art not seen,\n    Although thy breath be rude.\n\n\u201cFreeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,\nThou dost not bite so nigh\n    As benefits forgot;\nThough thou the waters warp,\nThy sting is not so sharp\n    As friend remembered not.\u201d\n\n\nSometimes, when I was approaching the carcass of a horse or ox which\nlay on the beach there, where there was no living creature in sight, a\ndog would unexpectedly emerge from it and slink away with a mouthful of\noffal.\n\nThe sea-shore is a sort of neutral ground, a most advantageous point\nfrom which to contemplate this world. It is even a trivial place. The\nwaves forever rolling to the land are too far-travelled and untamable\nto be familiar. Creeping along the endless beach amid the sun-squall\nand the foam, it occurs to us that we, too, are the product of\nsea-slime.\n\nIt is a wild, rank place, and there is no flattery in it. Strewn with\ncrabs, horse-shoes, and razor-clams, and whatever the sea casts up,\u2014a\nvast _morgue_, where famished dogs may range in packs, and crows come\ndaily to glean the pittance which the tide leaves them. The carcasses\nof men and beasts together lie stately up upon its shelf, rotting and\nbleaching in the sun and waves, and each tide turns them in their beds,\nand tucks fresh sand under them. There is naked Nature, inhumanly\nsincere, wasting no thought on man, nibbling at the cliffy shore where\ngulls wheel amid the spray.\n\nWe saw this forenoon what, at a distance, looked like a bleached log\nwith a branch still left on it. It proved to be one of the principal\nbones of a whale, whose carcass, having been stripped of blubber at sea\nand cut adrift, had been washed up some months before. It chanced that\nthis was the most conclusive evidence which we met with to prove, what\nthe Copenhagen antiquaries assert, that these shores were the\n_Furdustrandas_ which Thorhall, the companion of Thorfinn during his\nexpedition to Vinland in 1007. sailed past in disgust. It appears that\nafter they had left the Cape and explored the country about\nStraum-Fiordr (Buzzards\u2019 Bay!), Thorhall, who was disappointed at not\ngetting any wine to drink there, determined to sail north again in\nsearch of Vinland. Though the antiquaries have given us the original\nIcelandic. I prefer to quote their translation, since theirs is the\nonly Latin which I know to have been aimed at Cape Cod.\n\n\u201cCum parati erant, sublato\nvelo, cecinit Thorhallus:\nE\u00f2 redeamus, ubi conterranei\nsunt nostri! faciamus aliter,\nexpansi arenosi peritum,\nlata navis explorare curricula:\ndum procellam incitantes gladii\nmor\u00e6 impatientes, qui terram\ncollaudant, Furdustrandas\ninhabitant et coquunt bal\u00e6nas.\u201d\n\n\nIn other words: \u201cWhen they were ready and their sail hoisted, Thorhall\nsang: Let us return thither where our fellow-countrymen are. Let us\nmake a bird[1] skilful to fly through the heaven of sand,[2] to explore\nthe broad track of ships; while warriors who impel to the tempest of\nswords,[3] who praise the land, inhabit Wonder-Strands, _and cook\nwhales_.\u2019\u201d And so he sailed north past Cape Cod, as the antiquaries\nsay, \u201cand was shipwrecked on to Ireland.\u201d\n\nThough once there were more whales cast up here, I think that it was\nnever more wild than now. We do not associate the idea of antiquity\nwith the ocean, nor wonder how it looked a thousand years ago, as we do\nof the land, for it was equally wild and unfathomable always. The\nIndians have left no traces on its surface, but it is the same to the\ncivilized man and the savage. The aspect of the shore only has changed.\nThe ocean is a wilderness reaching round the globe, wilder than a\nBengal jungle, and fuller of monsters, washing the very wharves of our\ncities and the gardens of our sea-side residences. Serpents, bears,\nhyenas, tigers, rapidly vanish as civilization advances, but the most\npopulous and civilized city cannot scare a shark far from its wharves.\nIt is no further advanced than Singapore, with its tigers, in this\nrespect. The Boston papers had never told me that there were seals in\nthe harbor. I had always associated these with the Esquimaux and other\noutlandish people. Yet from the parlor windows all along the coast you\nmay see families of them sporting on the flats. They were as strange to\nme as the merman would be. Ladies who never walk in the woods, sail\nover the sea. To go to sea! Why, it is to have the experience of\nNoah,\u2014to realize the deluge. Every vessel is an ark.\n\nWe saw no fences as we walked the beach, no birchen _riders_, highest\nof rails, projecting into the sea to keep the cows from wading round,\nnothing to remind us that man was proprietor of the shore. Yet a Truro\nman did tell us that owners of land on the east side of that town were\nregarded as owning the beach, in order that they might have the control\nof it so far as to defend themselves against the encroachments of the\nsand and the beach-grass,\u2014for even this friend is sometimes regarded as\na foe; but he said that this was not the case on the Bay side. Also I\nhave seen in sheltered parts of the Bay temporary fences running to\nlow-water mark, the posts being set in sills or sleepers placed\ntransversely.\n\nAfter we had been walking many hours, the mackerel fleet still hovered\nin the northern horizon nearly in the same direction, but farther off,\nhull down. Though their sails were set they never sailed away, nor yet\ncame to anchor, but stood on various tacks as close together as vessels\nin a haven, and we in our ignorance thought that they were contending\npatiently with adverse winds, beating eastward; but we learned\nafterward that they were even then on their fishing-ground, and that\nthey caught mackerel without taking in their mainsails or coming to\nanchor, \u201ca smart breeze\u201d (thence called a mackerel breeze) \u201cbeing,\u201d as\none says, \u201cconsidered most favorable\u201d for this purpose. We counted\nabout two hundred sail of mackerel fishers within one small arc of the\nhorizon, and a nearly equal number had disappeared southward. Thus they\nhovered about the extremity of the Cape, like moths round a candle; the\nlights at Race Point and Long Point being bright candles for them at\nnight,\u2014and at this distance they looked fair and white, as if they had\nnot yet flown into the light, but nearer at hand afterward, we saw how\nsome had formerly singed their wings and bodies.\n\nA village seems thus, where its able-bodied men are all ploughing the\nocean together, as a common field. In North Truro the women and girls\nmay sit at their doors, and see where their husbands and brothers are\nharvesting their mackerel fifteen or twenty miles off, on the sea, with\nhundreds of white harvest wagons, just as in the country the farmers\u2019\nwives sometimes see their husbands working in a distant hillside field.\nBut the sound of no dinner-horn can reach the fisher\u2019s ear.\n\nHaving passed the narrowest part of the waist of the Cape, though still\nin Truro, for this township is about twelve miles long on the shore, we\ncrossed over to the Bay side, not half a mile distant, in order to\nspend the noon on the nearest shrubby sand-hill in Provincetown, called\nMount Ararat, which rises one hundred feet above the ocean. On our way\nthither we had occasion to admire the various beautiful forms and\ncolors of the sand, and we noticed an interesting mirage, which I have\nsince found that Hitchcock also observed on the sands of the Cape. We\nwere crossing a shallow valley in the Desert, where the smooth and\nspotless sand sloped upward by a small angle to the horizon on every\nside, and at the lowest part was a long chain of clear but shallow\npools. As we were approaching these for a drink in a diagonal direction\nacross the valley, they appeared inclined at a slight but decided angle\nto the horizon, though they were plainly and broadly connected with one\nanother, and there was not the least ripple to suggest a current; so\nthat by the time we had reached a convenient part of one we seemed to\nhave ascended several feet. They appeared to lie by magic on the side\nof the vale, like a mirror left in a slanting position. It was a very\npretty mirage for a Provincetown desert, but not amounting to what, in\nSanscrit, is called \u201cthe thirst of the gazelle,\u201d as there was real\nwater here for a base, and we were able to quench our thirst after all.\n\nProfessor Rafn, of Copenhagen, thinks that the mirage which I noticed,\nbut which an old inhabitant of Provincetown, to whom I mentioned it,\nhad never seen nor heard of, had something to do with the name\n\u201cFurdustrandas,\u201d i.e. Wonder-Strands, given, as I have said, in the old\nIcelandic account of Thorfinn\u2019s expedition to Vinland in the year 1007,\nto a part of the coast on which he landed. But these sands are more\nremarkable for their length than for their mirage, which is common to\nall deserts, and the reason for the name which the Northmen themselves\ngive,\u2014\u201cbecause it took a long time to sail by them,\u201d\u2014is sufficient and\nmore applicable to these shores. However, if you should sail all the\nway from Greenland to Buzzards\u2019 Bay along the coast, you would get\nsight of a good many sandy beaches. But whether Thorfinn saw the mirage\nhere or not, Thor-eau, one of the same family, did; and perchance it\nwas because Lief the Lucky had, in a previous voyage, taken Thor-er and\nhis people off the rock in the middle of the sea, that Thor-eau was\nborn to see it.\n\nThis was not the only mirage which I saw on the Cape. That half of the\nbeach next the bank is commonly level, or nearly so, while the other\nslopes downward to the water. As I was walking upon the edge of the\nbank in Wellfleet at sundown, it seemed to me that the inside half of\nthe beach sloped upward toward the water to meet the other, forming a\nridge ten or twelve feet high the whole length of the shore, but higher\nalways opposite to where I stood; and I was not convinced of the\ncontrary till I descended the bank, though the shaded outlines left by\nthe waves of a previous tide but half-way down the apparent declivity\nmight have taught me better. A stranger may easily detect what is\nstrange to the oldest inhabitant, for the strange is his province. The\nold oysterman, speaking of gull-shooting, had said that you must aim\nunder, when firing down the bank.\n\nA neighbor tells me that one August, looking through a glass from\nNaushon to some vessels which were sailing along near Martha\u2019s\nVineyard, the water about them appeared perfectly smooth, so that they\nwere reflected in it, and yet their full sails proved that it must be\nrippled, and they who were with him thought that it was mirage, _i.e._\na reflection from a haze.\n\nFrom the above-mentioned sand-hill we over-looked Provincetown and its\nharbor, now emptied of vessels, and also a wide expanse of ocean. As we\ndid not wish to enter Provincetown before night, though it was cold and\nwindy, we returned across the Deserts to the Atlantic side, and walked\nalong the beach again nearly to Race Point, being still greedy of the\nsea influence. All the while it was not so calm as the reader may\nsuppose, but it was blow, blow, blow,\u2014roar, roar, roar,\u2014tramp, tramp,\ntramp,\u2014without interruption. The shore now trended nearly east and\nwest.\n\nBefore sunset, having already seen the mackerel fleet returning into\nthe Bay, we left the sea-shore on the north of Provincetown, and made\nour way across the Desert to the eastern extremity of the town. From\nthe first high sand-hill, covered with beach-grass and bushes to its\ntop, on the edge of the desert, we overlooked the shrubby hill and\nswamp country which surrounds Provincetown on the north, and protects\nit, in some measure, from the invading sand. Notwithstanding the\nuniversal barrenness, and the contiguity of the desert, I never saw an\nautumnal landscape so beautifully painted as this was. It was like the\nrichest rug imaginable spread over an uneven surface; no damask nor\nvelvet, nor Tyrian dye or stuffs, nor the work of any loom, could ever\nmatch it. There was the incredibly bright red of the Huckleberry, and\nthe reddish brown of the Bayberry, mingled with the bright and living\ngreen of small Pitch-Pines, and also the duller green of the Bayberry,\nBoxberry, and Plum, the yellowish green of the Shrub-oaks, and the\nvarious golden and yellow and fawn-colored tints of the Birch and Maple\nand Aspen,\u2014each making its own figure, and, in the midst, the few\nyellow sand-slides on the sides of the hills looked like the white\nfloor seen through rents in the rug. Coming from the country as I did,\nand many autumnal woods as I had seen, this was perhaps the most novel\nand remarkable sight that I saw on the Cape. Probably the brightness of\nthe tints was enhanced by contrast with the sand which surrounded this\ntract. This was a part of the furniture of Cape Cod. We had for days\nwalked up the long and bleak piazza which runs along her Atlantic side,\nthen over the sanded floor of her halls, and now we were being\nintroduced into her boudoir. The hundred white sails crowding round\nLong Point into Provincetown Harbor, seen over the painted hills in\nfront, looked like toy ships upon a mantel-piece.\n\nThe peculiarity of this autumnal landscape consisted in the lowness and\nthickness of the shrubbery, no less than in the brightness of the\ntints. It was like a thick stuff of worsted or a fleece, and looked as\nif a giant could take it up by the hem, or rather the tasselled fringe\nwhich trailed out on the sand, and shake it, though it needed not to be\nshaken. But no doubt the dust would fly in that case, for not a little\nhas accumulated underneath it. Was it not such an autumnal landscape as\nthis which suggested our high-colored rugs and carpets? Hereafter when\nI look on a richer rug than usual, and study its figures, I shall\nthink, there are the huckleberry hills, and there the denser swamps of\nboxberry and blueberry: there the shrub-oak patches and the bayberries,\nthere the maples and the birches and the pines. What other dyes are to\nbe compared to these? They were warmer colors than I had associated\nwith the New England coast.\n\nAfter threading a swamp full of boxberry, and climbing several hills\ncovered with shrub-oaks, without a path, where shipwrecked men would be\nin danger of perishing in the night, we came down upon the eastern\nextremity of the four planks which run the whole length of Provincetown\nstreet. This, which is the last town on the Cape, lies mainly in one\nstreet along the curving beach fronting the southeast. The sand-hills,\ncovered with shrubbery and interposed with swamps and ponds, rose\nimmediately behind it in the form of a crescent, which is from half a\nmile to a mile or more wide in the middle, and beyond these is the\ndesert, which is the greater part of its territory, stretching to the\nsea on the east and west and north. The town is compactly built in the\nnarrow space, from ten to fifty rods deep, between the harbor and the\nsand-hills, and contained at that time about twenty-six hundred\ninhabitants. The houses, in which a more modern and pretending style\nhas at length prevailed over the fisherman\u2019s hut, stand on the inner or\nplank side of the street, and the fish and store houses, with the\npicturesque-looking windmills of the Salt-works, on the water side. The\nnarrow portion of the beach between, forming the street, about eighteen\nfeet wide, the only one where one carriage could pass another, if there\nwas more than one carriage in the town, looked much \u201cheavier\u201d than any\nportion of the beach or the desert which we had walked on, it being\nabove the reach of the highest tide, and the sand being kept loose by\nthe occasional passage of a traveller. We learned that the four planks\non which we were walking had been bought by the town\u2019s share of the\nSurplus Revenue, the disposition of which was a bone of contention\nbetween the inhabitants, till they wisely resolved thus to put it under\nfoot. Yet some, it was said, were so provoked because they did not\nreceive their particular share in money, that they persisted in walking\nin the sand a long time after the sidewalk was built. This is the only\ninstance which I happen to know in which the surplus revenue proved a\nblessing to any town. A surplus revenue of dollars from the treasury to\nstem the greater evil of a surplus revenue of sand from the ocean. They\nexpected to make a hard road by the time these planks were worn out.\nIndeed, they have already done so since we were there, and have almost\nforgotten their sandy baptism.\n\nAs we passed along we observed the inhabitants engaged in curing either\nfish or the coarse salt hay which they had brought home and spread on\nthe beach before their doors, looking as yellow as if they had raked it\nout of the sea. The front-yard plots appeared like what indeed they\nwere, portions of the beach fenced in, with Beach-grass growing in\nthem, as if they were sometimes covered by the tide. You might still\npick up shells and pebbles there. There were a few trees among the\nhouses, especially silver abeles, willows, and balm-of-Gileads; and one\nman showed me a young oak which he had transplanted from behind the\ntown, thinking it an apple-tree. But every man to his trade. Though he\nhad little woodcraft, he was not the less weatherwise, and gave us one\npiece of information; viz., he had observed that when a thunder-cloud\ncame up with a flood-tide it did not rain. This was the most completely\nmaritime town that we were ever in. It was merely a good harbor,\nsurrounded by land dry, if not firm,\u2014an inhabited beach, whereon\nfishermen cured and stored their fish, without any back country. When\nashore the inhabitants still walk on planks. A few small patches have\nbeen reclaimed from the swamps, containing commonly half a dozen square\nrods only each. We saw one which was fenced with four lengths of rail;\nalso a fence made wholly of hogshead-staves stuck in the ground. These,\nand such as these, were all the cultivated and cultivable land in\nProvincetown. We were told that there were thirty or forty acres in\nall, but we did not discover a quarter part so much, and that was well\ndusted with sand, and looked as if the desert was claiming it. They are\nnow turning some of their swamps into Cranberry Meadows on quite an\nextensive scale.\n\n[Illustration: A cranberry meadow]\n\nYet far from being out of the way, Provincetown is directly in the way\nof the navigator, and he is lucky who does not run afoul of it in the\ndark. It is situated on one of the highways of commerce, and men from\nall parts of the globe touch there in the course of a year.\n\nThe mackerel fleet had nearly all got in before us, it being Saturday\nnight, excepting that division which had stood down towards Chatham in\nthe morning; and from a hill where we went to see the sun set in the\nBay we counted two hundred goodly looking schooners at anchor in the\nharbor at various distances from the shore, and more were yet coming\nround the Cape. As each came to anchor, it took in sail and swung round\nin the wind, and lowered its boat. They belonged chiefly to Wellfleet,\nTruro, and Cape Ann. This was that city of canvas which we had seen\nhull down in the horizon. Near at hand, and under bare poles, they were\nunexpectedly black-looking vessels, \u03bc\u03ad\u03bb\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9 \u03bd\u1fc6\u03b5\u03c2. A fisherman told us\nthat there were fifteen hundred vessels in the mackerel fleet, and that\nhe had counted three hundred and fifty in Provincetown Harbor at one\ntime. Being obliged to anchor at a considerable distance from the shore\non account of the shallowness of the water, they made the impression of\na larger fleet than the vessels at the wharves of a large city. As they\nhad been man\u0153uvring out there all day seemingly for our entertainment,\nwhile we were walking north-westward along the Atlantic, so now we\nfound them flocking into Provincetown Harbor at night, just as we\narrived, as if to meet us, and exhibit themselves close at hand.\nStanding by Race Point and Long Point with various speed, they reminded\nme of fowls coming home to roost.\n\nThese were genuine New England vessels. It is stated in the Journal of\nMoses Prince, a brother of the annalist, under date of 1721, at which\ntime he visited Gloucester, that the first vessel of the class called\nschooner was built at Gloucester about eight years before, by Andrew\nRobinson; and late in the same century one Cotton Tufts gives us the\ntradition with some particulars, which he learned on a visit to the\nsame place. According to the latter, Robinson having constructed a\nvessel which he masted and rigged in a peculiar manner, on her going\noff the stocks a bystander cried out, \u201c_O, how she scoons!_\u201d whereat\nRobinson replied, \u201c_A schooner let her be!_\u201d \u201cFrom which time,\u201d says\nTufts, \u201cvessels thus masted and rigged have gone by the name of\nschooners; before which, vessels of this description were not known in\nEurope.\u201d (See Mass. Hist. Coll., Vol. IX., 1st Series, and Vol. I., 4th\nSeries.) Yet I can hardly believe this, for a schooner has always\nseemed to me\u2014the typical vessel.\n\nAccording to C. E. Potter of Manchester, New Hampshire, the very word\n_schooner_ is of New England origin, being from the Indian _schoon_ or\n_scoot_, meaning to rush, as Schoodic, from _scoot_ and _anke_, a place\nwhere water rushes. N. B. Somebody of Gloucester was to read a paper on\nthis matter before a genealogical society, in Boston, March 3, 1859,\naccording to the _Boston Journal_, q. v.\n\nNearly all who come out must walk on the four planks which I have\nmentioned, so that you are pretty sure to meet all the inhabitants of\nProvincetown who come out in the course of a day, provided you keep out\nyourself. This evening the planks were crowded with mackerel fishers,\nto whom we gave and from whom we took the wall, as we returned to our\nhotel. This hotel was kept by a tailor, his shop on the one side of the\ndoor, his hotel on the other, and his day seemed to be divided between\ncarving meat and carving broadcloth.\n\nThe next morning, though it was still more cold and blustering than the\nday before, we took to the Deserts again, for we spent our days wholly\nout of doors, in the sun when there was any, and in the wind which\nnever failed. After threading the shrubby hill country at the southwest\nend of the town, west of the Shank-Painter Swamp, whose expressive\nname\u2014for we understood it at first as a landsman naturally would\u2014gave\nit importance in our eyes, we crossed the sands to the shore south of\nRace Point and three miles distant, and thence roamed round eastward\nthrough the desert to where we had left the sea the evening before. We\ntravelled five or six miles after we got out there, on a curving line,\nand might have gone nine or ten, over vast platters of pure sand, from\nthe midst of which we could not see a particle of vegetation, excepting\nthe distant thin fields of Beach-grass, which crowned and made the\nridges toward which the sand sloped upward on each side;\u2014all the while\nin the face of a cutting wind as cold as January; indeed, we\nexperienced no weather so cold as this for nearly two months afterward.\nThis desert extends from the extremity of the Cape, through\nProvincetown into Truro, and many a time as we were traversing it we\nwere reminded of \u201cRiley\u2019s Narrative\u201d of his captivity in the sands of\nArabia, notwithstanding the cold. Our eyes magnified the patches of\nBeach-grass into cornfields in the horizon, and we probably exaggerated\nthe height of the ridges on account of the mirage. I was pleased to\nlearn afterward, from Kalm\u2019s Travels in North America, that the\ninhabitants of the Lower St. Lawrence call this grass (_Calamagrostis\narenaria_), and also Sea-lyme grass (_Elymus arenarius_), _seigle de\nme_; and he adds, \u201cI have been assured that these plants grow in great\nplenty in Newfoundland, and on other North American shores; the places\ncovered with them looking, at a distance, like cornfields; which might\nexplain the passage in our northern accounts [he wrote in 1749] of the\nexcellent wine land [_Vinland det goda_, Translator], which mentions\nthat they had found whole fields of wheat growing wild.\u201d\n\nThe Beach-grass is \u201ctwo to four feet high, of a seagreen color,\u201d and it\nis said to be widely diffused over the world. In the Hebrides it is\nused for mats, pack-saddles, bags, hats, etc.; paper has been made of\nit at Dorchester in this State, and cattle eat it when tender. It has\nheads somewhat like rye, from six inches to a foot in length, and it is\npropagated both by roots and seeds. To express its love for sand, some\nbotanists have called it _Psamma arenaria_, which is the Greek for\nsand, qualified by the Latin for sandy,\u2014or sandy sand. As it is blown\nabout by the wind, while it is held fast by its roots, it describes\nmyriad circles in the sand as accurately as if they were made by\ncompasses.\n\nIt was the dreariest scenery imaginable. The only animals which we saw\non the sand at that time were spiders, which are to be found almost\neverywhere whether on snow or ice-water or sand,\u2014and a\nvenomous-looking, long, narrow worm, one of the myriapods, or\nthousand-legs. We were surprised to see spider-holes in that flowing\nsand with an edge as firm as that of a stoned well.\n\nIn June this sand was scored with the tracks of turtles both large and\nsmall, which had been out in the night, leading to and from the swamps.\nI was told by a _terr\u00e6 filius_ who has a \u201cfarm\u201d on the edge of the\ndesert, and is familiar with the fame of Provincetown, that one man had\ncaught twenty-five snapping-turtles there the previous spring. His own\nmethod of catching them was to put a toad on a mackerel-hook and cast\nit into a pond, tying the line to a stump or stake on shore. Invariably\nthe turtle when hooked crawled up the line to the stump, and was found\nwaiting there by his captor, however long afterward. He also said that\nminks, muskrats, foxes, coons, and wild mice were found there, but no\nsquirrels. We heard of sea-turtle as large as a barrel being found on\nthe beach and on East Harbor marsh, but whether they were native there,\nor had been lost out of some vessel, did not appear. Perhaps they were\nthe Salt-water Terrapin, or else the Smooth Terrapin, found thus far\nnorth. Many toads were met with where there was nothing but sand and\nbeach-grass. In Truro I had been surprised at the number of large\nlight-colored toads everywhere hopping over the dry and sandy fields,\ntheir color corresponding to that of the sand. Snakes also are common\non these pure sand beaches, and I have never been so much troubled by\nmosquitoes as in such localities. At the same season strawberries grew\nthere abundantly in the little hollows on the edge of the desert\nstanding amid the beach-grass in the sand, and the fruit of the\nshadbush or Amelanchier, which the inhabitants call Josh-pears (some\nthink from juicy?), is very abundant on the hills. I fell in with an\nobliging man who conducted me to the best locality for strawberries. He\nsaid that he would not have shown me the place if he had not seen that\nI was a stranger, and could not anticipate him another year; I\ntherefore feel bound in honor not to reveal it. When we came to a pond,\nhe being the native did the honors and carried me over on his\nshoulders, like Sindbad. One good turn deserves another, and if he ever\ncomes our way I will do as much for him.\n\nIn one place we saw numerous dead tops of trees projecting through the\notherwise uninterrupted desert, where, as we afterward learned, thirty\nor forty years before a flourishing forest had stood, and now, as the\ntrees were laid bare from year to year, the inhabitants cut off their\ntops for fuel.\n\nWe saw nobody that day outside of the town; it was too wintry for such\nas had seen the Back-side before, or for the greater number who never\ndesire to see it, to venture out; and we saw hardly a track to show\nthat any had ever crossed this desert. Yet I was told that some are\nalways out on the Back-side night and day in severe weather, looking\nfor wrecks, in order that they may get the job of discharging the\ncargo, or the like,\u2014and thus shipwrecked men are succored. But,\ngenerally speaking, the inhabitants rarely visit these sands. One who\nhad lived in Provincetown thirty years told me that he had not been\nthrough to the north side within that time. Sometimes the natives\nthemselves come near perishing by losing their way in snow-storms\nbehind the town.\n\nThe wind was not a Sirocco or Simoon, such as we associate with the\ndesert, but a New England northeaster,\u2014and we sought shelter in vain\nunder the sand-hills, for it blew all about them, rounding them into\ncones, and was sure to find us out on whichever side we sat. From time\nto time we lay down and drank at little pools in the sand, filled with\npure fresh water, all that was left, probably, of a pond or swamp. The\nair was filled with dust like snow, and cutting sand which made the\nface tingle, and we saw what it must be to face it when the weather was\ndrier, and, if possible, windier still,\u2014to face a migrating sand-bar in\nthe air, which has picked up its duds and is off,\u2014to be whipped with a\ncat, not o\u2019 nine-tails, but of a myriad of tails, and each one a sting\nto it. A Mr. Whitman, a former minister of Wellfleet, used to write to\nhis inland friends that the blowing sand scratched the windows so that\nhe was obliged to have one new pane set every week, that he might see\nout.\n\nOn the edge of the shrubby woods the sand had the appearance of an\ninundation which was overwhelming them, terminating in an abrupt bank\nmany feet higher than the surface on which they stood, and having\npartially buried the outside trees. The moving sand-hills of England,\ncalled Dunes or Downs, to which these have been likened, are either\nformed of sand cast up by the sea, or of sand taken from the land\nitself in the first place by the wind, and driven still farther inward.\nIt is here a tide of sand impelled by waves and wind, slowly flowing\nfrom the sea toward the town. The northeast winds are said to be the\nstrongest, but the northwest to move most sand, because they are the\ndriest. On the shore of the Bay of Biscay many villages were formerly\ndestroyed in this way. Some of the ridges of beach-grass which we saw\nwere planted by government many years ago, to preserve the harbor of\nProvincetown and the extremity of the Cape. I talked with some who had\nbeen employed in the planting. In the \u201cDescription of the Eastern\nCoast,\u201d which I have already referred to, it is said: \u201cBeach-grass\nduring the spring and summer grows about two feet and a half. If\nsurrounded by naked beach, the storms of autumn and winter heap up the\nsand on all sides, and cause it to rise nearly to the top of the plant.\nIn the ensuing spring the grass mounts anew; is again covered with sand\nin the winter; and thus a hill or ridge continues to ascend as long as\nthere is a sufficient base to support it, or till the circumscribing\nsand, being also covered with beach-grass, will no longer yield to the\nforce of the winds.\u201d Sand-hills formed in this way are sometimes one\nhundred feet high and of every variety of form, like snow-drifts, or\nArab tents, and are continually shifting. The grass roots itself very\nfirmly. When I endeavored to pull it up, it usually broke off ten\ninches or a foot below the surface, at what had been the surface the\nyear before, as appeared by the numerous offshoots there, it being a\nstraight, hard, round shoot, showing by its length how much the sand\nhad accumulated the last year; and sometimes the dead stubs of a\nprevious season were pulled up with it from still deeper in the sand,\nwith their own more decayed shoot attached,\u2014so that the age of a\nsand-hill, and its rate of increase for several years, is pretty\naccurately recorded in this way.\n\n[Illustration: The sand dunes drifting in upon the trees]\n\nOld Gerard, the English herbalist, says, p. 1250: \u201cI find mention in\nStowe\u2019s Chronicle, in Anno 1555, of a certain pulse or pease, as they\nterm it, wherewith the poor people at that time, there being a great\ndearth, were miraculously helped: he thus mentions it. In the month of\nAugust (saith he), in Suffolke, at a place by the sea side all of hard\nstone and pibble, called in those parts a shelf, lying between the\ntowns of Orford and Aldborough, where neither grew grass nor any earth\nwas ever seen; it chanced in this barren place suddenly to spring up\nwithout any tillage or sowing, great abundance of peason, whereof the\npoor gathered (as men judged) above one hundred quarters, yet remained\nsome ripe and some blossoming, as many as ever there were before: to\nthe which place rode the Bishop of Norwich and the Lord Willoughby,\nwith others in great number, who found nothing but hard, rocky stone\nthe space of three yards under the roots of these peason, which roots\nwere great and long, and very sweet.\u201d He tells us also that Gesner\nlearned from Dr. Cajus that there were enough there to supply thousands\nof men. He goes on to say that \u201cthey without doubt grew there many\nyears before, but were not observed till hunger made them take notice\nof them, and quickened their invention, which commonly in our people is\nvery dull, especially in finding out food of this nature. My worshipful\nfriend Dr. Argent hath told me that many years ago he was in this\nplace, and caused his man to pull among the beach with his hands, and\nfollow the roots so long until he got some equal in length unto his\nheight, yet could come to no ends of them.\u201d Gerard never saw them, and\nis not certain what kind they were.\n\nIn Dwight\u2019s Travels in New England it is stated that the inhabitants of\nTruro were formerly regularly warned under the authority of law in the\nmonth of April yearly, to plant beachgrass, as elsewhere they are\nwarned to repair the highways. They dug up the grass in bunches, which\nwere afterward divided into several smaller ones, and set about three\nfeet apart, in rows, so arranged as to break joints and obstruct the\npassage of the wind. It spread itself rapidly, the weight of the seeds\nwhen ripe bending the heads of the grass, and so dropping directly by\nits side and vegetating there. In this way, for instance, they built up\nagain that part of the Cape between Truro and Provincetown where the\nsea broke over in the last century. They have now a public road near\nthere, made by laying sods, which were full of roots, bottom upward and\nclose together on the sand, double in the middle of the track, then\nspreading brush evenly over the sand on each side for half a dozen\nfeet, planting beachgrass on the banks in regular rows, as above\ndescribed, and sticking a fence of brush against the hollows.\n\nThe attention of the general government was first attracted to the\ndanger which threatened Cape Cod Harbor from the inroads of the sand,\nabout thirty years ago, and commissioners were at that time appointed\nby Massachusetts, to examine the premises. They reported in June, 1825,\nthat, owing to \u201cthe trees and brush having been cut down, and the\nbeach-grass destroyed on the seaward side of the Cape, opposite the\nHarbor,\u201d the original surface of the ground had been broken up and\nremoved by the wind toward the Harbor,\u2014during the previous fourteen\nyears,\u2014over an extent of \u201cone half a mile in breadth, and about four\nand a half miles in length.\u201d\u2014\u201cThe space where a few years since were\nsome of the highest lands on the Cape, covered with trees and bushes,\u201d\npresenting \u201can extensive waste of undulating sand\u201d;\u2014and that, during\nthe previous twelve months, the sand \u201chad approached the Harbor an\naverage distance of fifty rods, for an extent of four and a half\nmiles!\u201d and unless some measures were adopted to check its progress, it\nwould in a few years destroy both the harbor and the town. They\ntherefore recommended that beach-grass be set out on a curving line\nover a space ten rods wide and four and a half miles long, and that\ncattle, horses, and sheep be prohibited from going abroad, and the\ninhabitants from cutting the brush.\n\nI was told that about thirty thousand dollars in all had been\nappropriated to this object, though it was complained that a great part\nof this was spent foolishly, as the public money is wont to be. Some\nsay that while the government is planting beach-grass behind the town\nfor the protection of the harbor, the inhabitants are rolling the sand\ninto the harbor in wheelbarrows, in order to make house-lots. The\nPatent-Office has recently imported the seed of this grass from\nHolland, and distributed it over the country, but probably we have as\nmuch as the Hollanders.\n\nThus Cape Cod is anchored to the heavens, as it were, by a myriad\nlittle cables of beach-grass, and, if they should fail, would become a\ntotal wreck, and erelong go to the bottom. Formerly, the cows were\npermitted to go at large, and they ate many strands of the cable by\nwhich the Cape is moored, and well-nigh set it adrift, as the bull did\nthe boat which was moored with a grass rope; but now they are not\npermitted to wander.\n\nA portion of Truro which has considerable taxable property on it has\nlately been added to Provincetown, and I was told by a Truro man that\nhis townsmen talked of petitioning the legislature to set off the next\nmile of their territory also to Provincetown, in order that she might\nhave her share of the lean as well as the fat, and take care of the\nroad through it; for its whole value is literally to hold the Cape\ntogether, and even this it has not always done. But Provincetown\nstrenuously declines the gift.\n\nThe wind blowed so hard from the northeast that, cold as it was, we\nresolved to see the breakers on the Atlantic side, whose din we had\nheard all the morning; so we kept on eastward through the Desert, till\nwe struck the shore again northeast of Provincetown, and exposed\nourselves to the full force of the piercing blast. There are extensive\nshoals there over which the sea broke with great force. For half a mile\nfrom the shore it was one mass of white breakers, which, with the wind,\nmade such a din that we could hardly hear ourselves speak. Of this part\nof the coast it is said: \u201cA northeast storm, the most violent and fatal\nto seamen, as it is frequently accompanied with snow, blows directly on\nthe land: a strong current sets along the shore; add to which that\nships, during the operation of such a storm, endeavor to work\nnorthward, that they may get into the bay. Should they be unable to\nweather Race Point, the wind drives them on the shore, and a shipwreck\nis inevitable. Accordingly, the strand is everywhere covered with the\nfragments of vessels.\u201d But since the Highland Light was erected, this\npart of the coast is less dangerous, and it is said that more\nshipwrecks occur south of that light, where they were scarcely known\nbefore.\n\n[Illustration: The white breakers on the Atlantic side]\n\nThis was the stormiest sea that we witnessed,\u2014more _tumultuous_, my\ncompanion affirmed, than the rapids of Niagara, and, of course, on a\nfar greater scale. It was the ocean in a gale, a clear, cold day, with\nonly one sail in sight, which labored much, as if it were anxiously\nseeking a harbor. It was high tide when we reached the shore, and in\none place, for a considerable distance, each wave dashed up so high\nthat it was difficult to pass between it and the bank. Further south,\nwhere the bank was higher, it would have been dangerous to attempt it.\nA native of the Cape has told me that, many years ago, three boys, his\nplaymates, having gone to this beach in Wellfleet to visit a wreck,\nwhen the sea receded ran down to the wreck, and when it came in ran\nbefore it to the bank, but the sea following fast at their heels,\ncaused the bank to cave and bury them alive.\n\nIt was the roaring sea, \u03b8\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u1f20\u03c7\u03ae\u03b5\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1,\u2014\n\n\u1f00\u03bc\u03c6\u1f76 \u03b4\u1f72 \u03c4\u2019 \u1f04\u03ba\u03c1\u03b1\u03b9\n\u1f28\u03ca\u03cc\u03bd\u03b5\u03c2 \u03b2\u03bf\u03cc\u03c9\u03c3\u03b9\u03bd, \u1f10\u03c1\u03b5\u03c5\u03b3\u03bf\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7\u03c2 \u1f01\u03bb\u1f78\u03c2 \u1f14\u03be\u03c9.\n\n\nAnd the summits of the bank\nAround resound, the sea being vomited forth.\n\n\nAs we stood looking on this scene we were gradually convinced that\nfishing here and in a pond were not, in all respects, the same, and\nthat he who waits for fair weather and a calm sea may never see the\nglancing skin of a mackerel, and get no nearer to a cod than the wooden\nemblem in the State House.\n\nHaving lingered on the shore till we were well-nigh chilled to death by\nthe wind, and were ready to take shelter in a Charity-house, we turned\nour weather-beaten faces toward Provincetown and the Bay again, having\nnow more than doubled the Cape.\n\n [1] _I. e._ a vessel.\n\n\n [2] The sea, which is arched over its sandy bottom like a heaven.\n\n\n [3] Battle.\n\n\n\n\nX\nPROVINCETOWN\n\n\nEarly the next morning I walked into a fish-house near our hotel, where\nthree or four men were engaged in trundling out the pickled fish on\nbarrows, and spreading them to dry. They told me that a vessel had\nlately come in from the Banks with forty-four thousand codfish. Timothy\nDwight says that, just before he arrived at Provincetown, \u201ca schooner\ncome in from the Great Bank with fifty-six thousand fish, almost one\nthousand five hundred quintals, taken in a single voyage; the main deck\nbeing, on her return, eight inches under water in calm weather.\u201d The\ncod in this fish-house, just out of the pickle, lay packed several feet\ndeep, and three or four men stood on them in cowhide boots, pitching\nthem on to the barrows with an instrument which had a single iron\npoint. One young man, who chewed tobacco, spat on the fish repeatedly.\nWell, sir, thought I, when that older man sees you he will speak to\nyou. But presently I saw the older man do the same thing. It reminded\nme of the figs of Smyrna. \u201cHow long does it take to cure these fish?\u201d I\nasked.\n\n\u201cTwo good drying days, sir,\u201d was the answer.\n\nI walked across the street again into the hotel to breakfast, and mine\nhost inquired if I would take \u201chashed fish or beans.\u201d I took beans,\nthough they never were a favorite dish of mine. I found next summer\nthat this was still the only alternative proposed here, and the\nlandlord was still ringing the changes on these two words. In the\nformer dish there was a remarkable proportion of fish. As you travel\ninland the potato predominates. It chanced that I did not taste fresh\nfish of any kind on the Cape, and I was assured that they were not so\nmuch used there as in the country. That is where they are cured, and\nwhere, sometimes, travellers are cured of eating them. No fresh meat\nwas slaughtered in Provincetown, but the little that was used at the\npublic houses was brought from Boston by the steamer.\n\n[Illustration: In Provincetown harbor]\n\nA great many of the houses here were surrounded by fish-flakes close up\nto the sills on all sides, with only a narrow passage two or three feet\nwide, to the front door; so that instead of looking out into a flower\nor grass plot, you looked on to so many square rods of cod turned wrong\nside outwards. These parterres were said to be least like a\nflower-garden in a good drying day in mid-summer. There were flakes of\nevery age and pattern, and some so rusty and overgrown with lichens\nthat they looked as if they might have served the founders of the\nfishery here. Some had broken down under the weight of successive\nharvests. The principal employment of the inhabitants at this time\nseemed to be to trundle out their fish and spread them in the morning,\nand bring them in at night. I saw how many a loafer who chanced to be\nout early enough got a job at wheeling out the fish of his neighbor who\nwas anxious to improve the whole of a fair day. Now, then, I knew where\nsalt fish were caught. They were everywhere lying on their backs, their\ncollar-bones standing out like the lapels of a man-o\u2019-war-man\u2019s jacket,\nand inviting all things to come and rest in their bosoms; and all\nthings, with a few exceptions, accepted the invitation. I think, by the\nway, that if you should wrap a large salt fish round a small boy, he\nwould have a coat of such a fashion as I have seen many a one wear to\nmuster. Salt fish were stacked up on the wharves, looking like corded\nwood, maple and yellow birch with the bark left on. I mistook them for\nthis at first, and such in one sense they were,\u2014fuel to maintain our\nvital fires,\u2014an eastern wood which grew on the Grand Banks. Some were\nstacked in the form of huge flower-pots, being laid in small circles\nwith the tails outwards, each circle successively larger than the\npreceding until the pile was three or four feet high, when the circles\nrapidly diminished, so as to form a conical roof. On the shores of New\nBrunswick this is covered with birch-bark, and stones are placed upon\nit, and being thus rendered impervious to the rain, it is left to\nseason before being packed for exportation.\n\nIt is rumored that in the fall the cows here are sometimes fed on\ncod\u2019s-heads! The godlike part of the cod, which, like the human head,\nis curiously and wonderfully made, forsooth has but little less brain\nin it,\u2014coming to such an end I to be craunched by cows I I felt my own\nskull crack from sympathy. What if the heads of men were to be cut off\nto feed the cows of a superior order of beings who inhabit the islands\nin the ether? Away goes your fine brain, the house of thought and\ninstinct, to swell the cud of a ruminant animal!\u2014However, an inhabitant\nassured me that they did not make a practice of feeding cows on\ncod\u2019s-heads; the cows merely would eat them sometimes; but I might live\nthere all my days and never see it done. A cow wanting salt would also\nsometimes lick out all the soft part of a cod on the flakes. This he\nwould have me believe was the foundation of this fish-story.\n\nIt has been a constant traveller\u2019s tale and perhaps slander, now for\nthousands of years, the Latins and Greeks have repeated it, that this\nor that nation feeds its cattle, or horses, or sheep, on fish, as may\nbe seen in \u00c6lian and Pliny, but in the Journal of Nearchus, who was\nAlexander\u2019s admiral, and made a voyage from the Indus to the Euphrates\nthree hundred and twenty-six years before Christ, it is said that the\ninhabitants of a portion of the intermediate coast, whom he called\nIchthyophagi or Fish-eaters, not only ate fishes raw and also dried and\npounded in a whale\u2019s vertebra for a mortar and made into a paste, but\ngave them to their cattle, there being no grass on the coast; and\nseveral modern travellers\u2014Braybosa, Niebuhr, and others\u2014make the same\nreport. Therefore in balancing the evidence I am still in doubt about\nthe Provincetown cows. As for other domestic animals, Captain King in\nhis continuation of Captain Cook\u2019s Journal in 1779, says of the dogs of\nKamtschatka, \u201cTheir food in the winter consists entirely of the heads,\nentrail, and backbones of salmon, which are put aside and dried for\nthat purpose; and with this diet they are fed but sparingly.\u201d (Cook\u2019s\nJournal, Vol. VII., p. 315.)\n\nAs we are treating of fishy matters, let me insert what Pliny says,\nthat \u201cthe commanders of the fleets of Alexander the Great have related\nthat the Gedrosi, who dwell on the banks of the river Arabis, are in\nthe habit of making the doors of their houses with the jaw-bones of\nfishes, and raftering the roofs with their bones.\u201d Strabo tells the\nsame of the Ichthyophagi. \u201cHardouin remarks that the Basques of his day\nwere in the habit of fencing their gardens with the ribs of the whale,\nwhich sometimes exceeded twenty feet in length; and Cuvier says that at\nthe present time the jaw-bone of the whale is used in Norway for the\npurpose of making beams or posts for buildings.\u201d (Bohn\u2019s ed., trans, of\nPliny, Vol. II., p. 361.) Herodotus says the inhabitants on Lake\nPrasias in Thrace (living on piles) \u201cgive fish for fodder to their\nhorses and beasts of burden.\u201d\n\nProvincetown was apparently what is called a flourishing town. Some of\nthe inhabitants asked me if I did not think that they appeared to be\nwell off generally. I said that I did, and asked how many there were in\nthe almshouse. \u201cO, only one or two, infirm or idiotic,\u201d answered they.\nThe outward aspect of the houses and shops frequently suggested a\npoverty which their interior comfort and even richness disproved. You\nmight meet a lady daintily dressed in the Sabbath morning, wading in\namong the sandhills, from church, where there appeared no house fit to\nreceive her, yet no doubt the interior of the house answered to the\nexterior of the lady. As for the interior of the inhabitants I am still\nin the dark about it. I had a little intercourse with some whom I met\nin the street, and was often agreeably disappointed by discovering the\nintelligence of rough, and what would be considered unpromising\nspecimens. Nay, I ventured to call on one citizen the next summer, by\nspecial invitation. I found him sitting in his front doorway, that\nSabbath evening, prepared for me to come in unto him; but unfortunately\nfor his reputation for keeping open house, there was stretched across\nhis gateway a circular cobweb of the largest kind and quite entire.\nThis looked so ominous that I actually turned aside and went in the\nback way.\n\nThis Monday morning was beautifully mild and calm, both on land and\nwater, promising us a smooth passage across the Bay, and the fishermen\nfeared that it would not be so good a drying day as the cold and windy\none which preceded it. There could hardly have been a greater contrast.\nThis was the first of the Indian summer days, though at a late hour in\nthe morning we found the wells in the sand behind the town still\ncovered with ice, which had formed in the night. What with wind and sun\nmy most prominent feature fairly cast its slough. But I assure you it\nwill take more than two good drying days to cure me of rambling. After\nmaking an excursion among the hills in the neighborhood of the\nShank-Painter Swamp, and getting a little work done in its line, we\ntook our seat upon the highest sand-hill overlooking the town, in\nmid-air, on a long plank stretched across between two hillocks of sand,\nwhere some boys were endeavoring in vain to fly their kite; and there\nwe remained the rest of that forenoon looking out over the placid\nharbor, and watching for the first appearance of the steamer from\nWellfleet, that we might be in readiness to go on board when we heard\nthe whistle off Long Point.\n\nWe got what we could out of the boys in the meanwhile. Provincetown\nboys are of course all sailors and have sailors\u2019 eyes. When we were at\nthe Highland Light the last summer, seven or eight miles from\nProvincetown Harbor, and wished to know one Sunday morning if the\n_Olata_, a well-known yacht, had got in from Boston, so that we could\nreturn in her, a Provincetown boy about ten years old, who chanced to\nbe at the table, remarked that she had. I asked him how he knew. \u201cI\njust saw her come in,\u201d said he. When I expressed surprise that he could\ndistinguish her from other vessels so far, he said that there were not\nso many of those two-topsail schooners about but that he could tell\nher. Palfrey said, in his oration at Barnstable, the duck does not take\nto the water with a surer instinct than the Barnstable boy. [He might\nhave said the Cape Cod boy as well.] He leaps from his leading-strings\ninto the shrouds, it is but a bound from the mother\u2019s lap to the\nmasthead. He boxes the compass in his infant soliloquies. He can hand,\nreef, and steer by the time he flies a kite.\n\nThis was the very day one would have chosen to sit upon a hill\noverlooking sea and land, and muse there. The mackerel fleet was\nrapidly taking its departure, one schooner after another, and standing\nround the Cape, like fowls leaving their roosts in the morning to\ndisperse themselves in distant fields. The turtle-like sheds of the\nsalt-works were crowded into every nook in the hills, immediately\nbehind the town, and their now idle windmills lined the shore. It was\nworth the while to see by what coarse and simple chemistry this almost\nnecessary of life is obtained, with the sun for journeyman, and a\nsingle apprentice to do the chores for a large establishment. It is a\nsort of tropical labor, pursued too in the sunniest season; more\ninteresting than gold or diamond-washing, which, I fancy, it somewhat\nresembles at a distance. In the production of the necessaries of life\nNature is ready enough to assist man. So at the potash works which I\nhave seen at Hull, where they burn the stems of the kelp and boil the\nashes. Verily, chemistry is not a splitting of hairs when you have got\nhalf a dozen raw Irishmen in the laboratory. It is said, that owing to\nthe reflection of the sun from the sand-hills, and there being\nabsolutely no fresh water emptying into the harbor, the same number of\nsuperficial feet yields more salt here than in any other part of the\ncounty. A little rain is considered necessary to clear the air, and\nmake salt fast and good, for as paint does not dry, so water does not\nevaporate in dog-day weather. But they were now, as elsewhere on the\nCape, breaking up their salt-works and selling them for lumber.\n\nFrom that elevation we could overlook the operations of the inhabitants\nalmost as completely as if the roofs had been taken off. They were\nbusily covering the wicker-worked flakes about their houses with salted\nfish, and we now saw that the back yards were improved for this purpose\nas much as the front; where one man\u2019s fish ended another\u2019s began. In\nalmost every yard we detected some little building from which these\ntreasures were being trundled forth and systematically spread, and we\nsaw that there was an art as well as a knack even in spreading fish,\nand that a division of labor was profitably practised. One man was\nwithdrawing his fishes a few inches beyond the nose of his neighbor\u2019s\ncow which had stretched her neck over a paling to get at them. It\nseemed a quite domestic employment, like drying clothes, and indeed in\nsome parts of the county the women take part in it.\n\nI noticed in several places on the Cape a sort of clothes-_flakes_.\nThey spread brush on the ground, and fence it round, and then lay their\nclothes on it, to keep them from the sand. This is a Cape Cod\nclothes-yard.\n\nThe sand is the great enemy here. The tops of some of the hills were\nenclosed and a board put up, forbidding all persons entering the\nenclosure, lest their feet should disturb the sand, and set it\na-blowing or a-sliding. The inhabitants are obliged to get leave from\nthe authorities to cut wood behind the town for fish-flakes,\nbean-poles, pea-brush, and the like, though, as we were told, they may\ntransplant trees from one part of the township to another without\nleave. The sand drifts like snow, and sometimes the lower story of a\nhouse is concealed by it, though it is kept off by a wall. The houses\nwere formerly built on piles, in order that the driving sand might pass\nunder them. We saw a few old ones here still standing on their piles,\nbut they were boarded up now, being protected by their younger\nneighbors. There was a school-house, just under the hill on which we\nsat, filled with sand up to the tops of the desks, and of course the\nmaster and scholars had fled. Perhaps they had imprudently left the\nwindows open one day, or neglected to mend a broken pane. Yet in one\nplace was advertised \u201cFine sand for sale here,\u201d\u2014I could hardly believe\nmy eyes,\u2014probably some of the street sifted,\u2014a good instance of the\nfact that a man confers a value on the most worthless thing by mixing\nhimself with it, according to which rule we must have conferred a value\non the whole back-side of Cape Cod;\u2014but I thought that if they could\nhave advertised \u201cFat Soil,\u201d or perhaps \u201cFine sand got rid of,\u201d ay, and\n\u201cShoes emptied here,\u201d it would have been more alluring. As we looked\ndown on the town, I thought that I saw one man, who probably lived\nbeyond the extremity of the planking, steering and tacking for it in a\nsort of snow-shoes, but I may have been mistaken. In some pictures of\nProvincetown the persons of the inhabitants are not drawn below the\nankles, so much being supposed to be buried in the sand. Nevertheless,\nnatives of Provincetown assured me that they could walk in the middle\nof the road without trouble even in slippers, for they had learned how\nto put their feet down and lift them up without taking in any sand. One\nman said that he should be surprised if he found half a dozen grains of\nsand in his pumps at night, and stated, moreover, that the young ladies\nhad a dexterous way of emptying their shoes at each step, which it\nwould take a stranger a long time to learn. The tires of the\nstage-wheels were about five inches wide; and the wagon-tires generally\non the Cape are an inch or two wider, as the sand is an inch or two\ndeeper than elsewhere. I saw a baby\u2019s wagon with tires six inches wide\nto keep it near the surface. The more tired the wheels, the less tired\nthe horses. Yet all the time that we were in Provincetown, which was\ntwo days and nights, we saw only one horse and cart, and they were\nconveying a coffin. They did not try such experiments there on common\noccasions. The next summer I saw only the two-wheeled horse-cart which\nconveyed me thirty rods into the harbor on my way to the steamer. Yet\nwe read that there were two horses and two yoke of oxen here in 1791,\nand we were told that there were several more when we were there,\nbeside the stage team. In Barber\u2019s Historical Collections, it is said,\n\u201cSo rarely are wheel-carriages seen in the place that they are a matter\nof some curiosity to the younger part of the community. A lad who\nunderstood navigating the ocean much better than land travel, on seeing\na man driving a wagon in the street, expressed his surprise at his\nbeing able to drive so straight without the assistance of a rudder.\u201d\nThere was no rattle of carts, and there would have been no rattle if\nthere had been any carts. Some saddle-horses that passed the hotel in\nthe evening merely made the sand fly with a rustling sound like a\nwriter sanding his paper copiously, but there was no sound of their\ntread. No doubt there are more horses and carts there at present. A\nsleigh is never seen, or at least is a great novelty on the Cape, the\nsnow being either absorbed by the sand or blown into drifts.\n\nNevertheless, the inhabitants of the Cape generally do not complain of\ntheir \u201csoil,\u201d but will tell you that it is good enough for them to dry\ntheir fish on.\n\nNotwithstanding all this sand, we counted three meeting-houses, and\nfour school-houses nearly as large, on this street, though some had a\ntight board fence about them to preserve the plot within level and\nhard. Similar fences, even within a foot of many of the houses, gave\nthe town a less cheerful and hospitable appearance than it would\notherwise have had. They told us that, on the whole, the sand had made\nno progress for the last ten years, the cows being no longer permitted\nto go at large, and every means being taken to stop the sandy tide.\n\nIn 1727 Provincetown was \u201cinvested with peculiar privileges,\u201d for its\nencouragement. Once or twice it was nearly abandoned; but now lots on\nthe street fetch a high price, though titles to them were first\nobtained by possession and improvement, and they are still transferred\nby quitclaim deeds merely, the township being the property of the\nState. But though lots were so valuable on the street, you might in\nmany places throw a stone over them to where a man could still obtain\nland, or sand, by squatting on or improving it.\n\n[Illustration: Provincetown\u2014A bit of the village from the wharf]\n\nStones are very rare on the Cape. I saw a very few small stones used\nfor pavements and for bank walls, in one or two places in my walk, but\nthey are so scarce that, as I was informed, vessels have been forbidden\nto take them from the beach for ballast, and therefore their crews used\nto land at night and steal them. I did not hear of a rod of regular\nstone wall below Orleans. Yet I saw one man underpinning a new house in\nEastham with some \u201crocks,\u201d as he called them, which he said a neighbor\nhad collected with great pains in the course of years, and finally made\nover to him. This I thought was a gift worthy of being recorded,\u2014equal\nto a transfer of California \u201crocks,\u201d almost. Another man who was\nassisting him, and who seemed to be a close observer of nature, hinted\nto me the locality of a rock in that neighborhood which was \u201cforty-two\npaces in circumference and fifteen feet high,\u201d for he saw that I was a\nstranger, and, probably, would not carry it off. Yet I suspect that the\nlocality of the few large rocks on the forearm of the Cape is well\nknown to the inhabitants generally. I even met with one man who had got\na smattering of mineralogy, but where he picked it up I could not\nguess. I thought that he would meet with some interesting geological\nnuts for him to crack, if he should ever visit the mainland, Cohasset,\nor Marblehead for instance.\n\nThe well stones at the Highland Light were brought from Hingham, but\nthe wells and cellars of the Cape are generally built of brick, which\nalso are imported. The cellars, as well as the wells, are made in a\ncircular form, to prevent the sand from pressing in the wall. The\nformer are only from nine to twelve feet in diameter, and are said to\nbe very cheap, since a single tier of brick will suffice for a cellar\nof even larger dimensions. Of course, if you live in the sand, you will\nnot require a large cellar to hold your roots. In Provincetown, when\nformerly they suffered the sand to drive under their houses,\nobliterating all rudiments of a cellar, they did not raise a vegetable\nto put into one. One farmer in Wellfleet, who raised fifty bushels of\npotatoes, showed me his cellar under a corner of his house, not more\nthan nine feet in diameter, looking like a cistern: but he had another\nof the same size under his barn.\n\nYou need dig only a few feet almost anywhere near the shore of the Cape\nto find fresh water. But that which we tasted was invariably poor.\nthough the inhabitants called it good, as if they were comparing it\nwith salt water. In the account of Truro, it is said. \u201cWells dug near\nthe shore are dry at low water, or rather at what is called young\nflood, but are replenished with the flowing of the tide,\u201d\u2014- the salt\nwater, which is lowest in the sand, apparently forcing the fresh up.\nWhen you express your surprise at the greenness of a Provincetown\ngarden on the beach, in a dry season, they will sometimes tell you that\nthe tide forces the moisture up to them. It is an interesting fact that\nlow sand-bars in the midst of the ocean, perhaps even those which are\nlaid bare only at low tide, are reservoirs of fresh water at which the\nthirsty mariner can supply himself. They appear, like huge sponges, to\nhold the rain and dew which fall on them, and which, by capillary\nattraction, are prevented from mingling with the surrounding brine.\n\nThe Harbor of Provincetown\u2014which, as well as the greater part of the\nBay, and a wide expanse of ocean, we overlooked from our perch\u2014is\ndeservedly famous. It opens to the south, is free from rocks, and is\nnever frozen over. It is said that the only ice seen in it drifts in\nsometimes from Barnstable or Plymouth. Dwight remarks that \u201cThe storms\nwhich prevail on the American coast generally come from the east; and\nthere is no other harbor on a windward shore within two hundred miles.\u201d\nJ. D. Graham, who has made a very minute and thorough survey of this\nharbor and the adjacent waters, states that \u201cits capacity, depth of\nwater, excellent anchorage, and the complete shelter it affords from\nall winds, combine to render it one of the most valuable ship harbors\non our coast.\u201d It is _the_ harbor of the Cape and of the fishermen of\nMassachusetts generally. It was known to navigators several years at\nleast before the settlement of Plymouth. In Captain John Smith\u2019s map of\nNew England, dated 1614, it bears the name of Milford Haven, and\nMassachusetts Bay that of Stuard\u2019s Bay. His Highness, Prince Charles,\nchanged the name of Cape Cod to Cape James; but even princes have not\nalways power to change a name for the worse, and as Cotton Mather said,\nCape Cod is \u201ca name which I suppose it will never lose till shoals of\ncodfish be seen swimming on its highest hills.\u201d\n\nMany an early voyager was unexpectedly caught by this hook, and found\nhimself embayed. On successive maps, Cape Cod appears sprinkled over\nwith French, Dutch, and English names, as it made part of New France,\nNew Holland, and New England. On one map Provincetown Harbor is called\n\u201cFuic (bownet?) Bay,\u201d Barnstable Bay \u201cStaten Bay,\u201d and the sea north of\nit \u201cMare del Noort,\u201d or the North Sea. On another, the extremity of the\nCape is called \u201cStaten Hoeck,\u201d or the States Hook. On another, by\nYoung, this has Noord Zee, Staten hoeck or Hit hoeck, but the copy at\nCambridge has no date; the whole Cape is called \u201cNiew Hollant,\u201d (after\nHudson); and on another still, the shore between Race Point and Wood\nEnd appears to be called \u201cBevechier.\u201d In Champlain\u2019s admirable Map of\nNew France, including the oldest recognizable map of what is now the\nNew England coast with which I am acquainted, Cape Cod is called C.\nBlan (i.e. Cape White), from the color of its sands, and Massachusetts\nBay is Baye Blanche. It was visited by De Monts and Champlain in 1605,\nand the next year was further explored by Poitrincourt and Champlain.\nThe latter has given a particular account of these explorations in his\n\u201cVoyages,\u201d together with separate charts and soundings of two of its\nharbors,\u2014_Malle Barre_, the Bad Bar (Nauset Harbor?), a name now\napplied to what the French called _Cap Baturier_; and _Port Fortune_,\napparently Chatham Harbor. Both these names are copied on the map of\n\u201cNovi Belgii,\u201d in Ogilvy\u2019s America. He also describes minutely the\nmanners and customs of the savages, and represents by a plate the\nsavages surprising the French and killing five or six of them. The\nFrench afterward killed some of the natives, and wished, by way of\nrevenge, to carry off some and make them grind in their hand-mill at\nPort Royal.\n\nIt is remarkable that there is not in English any adequate or correct\naccount of the French exploration of what is now the coast of New\nEngland, between 1604 and 1608, though it is conceded that they then\nmade the first permanent European settlement on the continent of North\nAmerica north of St. Augustine. If the lions had been the painters it\nwould have been otherwise. This omission is probably to be accounted\nfor partly by the fact that the _early edition_ of Champlain\u2019s\n\u201cVoyages\u201d had not been consulted for this purpose. This contains by far\nthe most particular, and, I think, the most interesting chapter of what\nwe may call the Ante-Pilgrim history of New England, extending to one\nhundred and sixty pages quarto; but appears to be unknown equally to\nthe historian and the orator on Plymouth Rock. Bancroft does not\nmention Champlain at all among the authorities for De Monts\u2019s\nexpedition, nor does he say that he ever visited the coast of New\nEngland. Though he bore the title of pilot to De Monts, he was, in\n_another sense_, the leading spirit, as well as the historian of the\nexpedition. Holmes, Hildreth, and Barry, and apparently all our\nhistorians who mention Champlain, refer to the edition of 1632, in\nwhich all the separate charts of our harbors, etc., and about one-half\nthe narrative, are omitted; for the author explored so many lands\nafterward that he could afford to forget a part of what he had done.\nHildreth, speaking of De Monts\u2019s expedition, says that \u201che looked into\nthe Penobscot [in 1605], which Pring had discovered two years before,\u201d\nsaying nothing about Champlain\u2019s extensive exploration of it for De\nMonts in 1604 (Holmes says 1608, and refers to Purchas); also that he\nfollowed in the track of Pring along the coast \u201cto Cape Cod, which he\ncalled Malabarre.\u201d (Haliburton had made the same statement before him\nin 1829. He called it Cap Blanc, and Malle Barre (the Bad Bar) was the\nname given to a harbor on the east side of the Cape). Pring says\nnothing about a river there. Belknap says that Weymouth discovered it\nin 1605. Sir F. Gorges, says, in his narration (Maine Hist. Coll., Vol.\nII., p. 19), 1658, that Pring in 1606 \u201cmade a perfect discovery of all\nthe rivers and harbors.\u201d This is the most I can find. Bancroft makes\nChamplain to have discovered more western rivers in Maine, not naming\nthe Penobscot; he, however, must have been the discoverer of distances\non this river (see Belknap, p. 147). Pring was absent from England only\nabout six months, and sailed by this part of Cape Cod (Malabarre)\nbecause it yielded no sassafras, while the French, who probably had\nnot heard of Pring, were patiently for years exploring the coast in\nsearch of a place of settlement, sounding and surveying its harbors.\n\nJohn Smith\u2019s map, published in 1616, from observations in 1614-15, is\nby many regarded as the oldest map of New England. It is the first that\nwas made after this country was called New England, for he so called\nit; but in Champlain\u2019s \u201cVoyages,\u201d edition 1613 (and Lescarbot, in 1612,\nquotes a still earlier account of his voyage), there is a map of it\nmade when it was known to Christendom as New France, called _Carte\nG\u00e9ographique de la Nouvelle Franse faictte par le Sieur de Champlain\nSaint Tongois Cappitaine ordinaire pour le roi en la Marine,\u2014faict l\u2019en\n1612_, from his observations between 1604 and 1607; a map extending\nfrom Labrador to Cape Cod and westward _to the Great Lakes_, and\ncrowded with information, geographical, ethnographical, zo\u00f6logical, and\nbotanical. He even gives the variation of the compass as observed by\nhimself at that date on many parts of the coast. This, taken together\nwith the many _separate charts_ of harbors and their soundings on a\nlarge scale, which this volume contains,\u2014among the rest. _Qui ni be\nquy_ (Kennebec), _Chouacoit R._ (Saco R.), _Le Beau port, Port St.\nLouis_ (near Cape Ann), and others on our coast,\u2014but _which are not in\nthe edition of 1632_, makes this a completer map of the New England and\nadjacent northern coast than was made for half a century afterward,\nalmost, we might be allowed to say, till another Frenchman, Des Barres,\nmade another for us, which only our late Coast Survey has superseded.\nMost of the maps of this coast made for a long time after betray their\nindebtedness to Champlain. He was a skilful navigator, a man of\nscience, and geographer to the King of France. He crossed the Atlantic\nabout twenty times, and made nothing of it; often in a small vessel in\nwhich few would dare to go to sea today; and on one occasion making the\nvoyage from Tadoussac to St. Malo in eighteen days. He was in this\nneighborhood, that is, between Annapolis, Nova Scotia, and Cape Cod,\nobserving the land and its inhabitants, and making a map of the coast,\nfrom May, 1604, to September, 1607, _or about three and a half years_,\nand he has described minutely his method of surveying harbors. By his\nown account, a part of his map was engraved in 1604 (?). When\nPont-Grav\u00e9 and others returned to France in 1606, he remained at Port\nRoyal with Poitrincourt, \u201cin order,\u201d says he, \u201cby the aid of God, to\nfinish the chart of the coasts which I had begun\u201d; and again in his\nvolume, printed before John Smith visited this part of America, he\nsays: \u201cIt seems to me that I have done my duty as far as I could, if I\nhave not forgotten to put in my said chart whatever I saw, and give a\nparticular knowledge to the public of what had never been described nor\ndiscovered so particularly as I have done it, although some other may\nhave heretofore written of it; but it was a very small affair in\ncomparison with what we have discovered within the last ten years.\u201d\n\nIt is not generally remembered, if known, by the descendants of the\nPilgrims, that when their forefathers were spending their first\nmemorable winter in the New World, they had for neighbors a colony of\nFrench no further off than Port Royal (Annapolis, Nova Scotia), three\nhundred miles distant (Prince seems to make it about five hundred\nmiles); where, in spite of many vicissitudes, they had been for fifteen\nyears. They built a grist-mill there as early as 1606; also made bricks\nand turpentine on a stream, Williamson says, in 1606. De Monts, who was\na Protestant, brought his minister with him, who came to blows with the\nCatholic priest on the subject of religion. Though these founders of\nAcadie endured no less than the Pilgrims, and about the same proportion\nof them\u2014thirty-five out of seventy-nine (Williamson\u2019s Maine says\nthirty-six out of seventy)\u2014died the first winter at St. Croix, 1604-5,\nsixteen years earlier, no orator, to my knowledge, has ever celebrated\ntheir enterprise (Williamson\u2019s History of Maine does considerably),\nwhile the trials which their successors and descendants endured at the\nhands of the English have furnished a theme for both the historian and\npoet. (See Bancroft\u2019s History and Longfellow\u2019s Evangeline.) The remains\nat their fort at St. Croix were discovered at the end of the last\ncentury, and helped decide where the true St. Croix, our boundary, was.\n\nThe very gravestones of those Frenchmen are probably older than the\noldest English monument in New England north of the Elizabeth Islands,\nor perhaps anywhere in New England, for if there are any traces of\nGosnold\u2019s storehouse left, his strong works are gone. Bancroft says,\nadvisedly, in 1834, \u201cIt requires a believing eye to discern the ruins\nof the fort\u201d; and that there were no ruins of a fort in 1837. Dr.\nCharles T. Jackson tells me that, in the course of a geological survey\nin 1827, he discovered a gravestone, a slab of trap rock, on Goat\nIsland, opposite Annapolis (Port Royal), in Nova Scotia, bearing a\nMasonic coat-of-arms and the date 1606, which is fourteen years earlier\nthan the landing of the Pilgrims. This was left in the possession of\nJudge Haliburton, of Nova Scotia.\n\nThere were Jesuit priests in what has since been called New England,\nconverting the savages at Mount Desert, then St. Savior, in\n1613,\u2014having come over to Port Royal in 1611, though they were almost\nimmediately interrupted by the English, years before the Pilgrims came\nhither to enjoy their own religion. This according to Champlain.\nCharlevoix says the same; and after coming from France in 1611, went\nwest from Port Royal along the coast as far as the Kennebec in 1612,\nand was often carried from Port Royal to Mount Desert.\n\nIndeed, the Englishman\u2019s history of _New_ England commences only when\nit ceases to be _New_ France. Though Cabot was the first to discover\nthe continent of North America, Champlain, in the edition of his\n\u201cVoyages\u201d printed in 1632, after the English had for a season got\npossession of Quebec and Port Royal, complains with no little justice:\n\u201cThe common consent of all Europe is to represent New France as\nextending at least to the thirty-fifth and thirty-sixth degrees of\nlatitude, as appears by the maps of the world printed in Spain, Italy,\nHolland, Flanders, Germany, and England, until they possessed\nthemselves of the coasts of New France, where are Acadie, the Etchemins\n(Maine and New Brunswick), the Almouchicois (Massachusetts?), and the\nGreat River St. Lawrence, where they have imposed, according to their\nfancy, such names as New England, Scotland, and others; but it is not\neasy to efface the memory of a thing which is known to all\nChristendom.\u201d\n\nThat Cabot merely landed on the uninhabitable shore of Labrador, gave\nthe English no just title to New England, or to the United States,\ngenerally, any more than to Patagonia. His careful biographer (Biddle)\nis not certain in what voyage he ran down the coast of the United\nStates as is reported, and no one tells us what he saw. Miller, in the\nNew York Hist. Coll., Vol. I., p. 28, says he does not appear to have\nlanded anywhere. Contrast with this Verrazzani\u2019s tarrying fifteen days\nat one place on the New England coast, and making frequent excursions\ninto the interior thence. It chances that the latter\u2019s letter to\nFrancis I., in 1524, contains \u201cthe earliest original account extant of\nthe Atlantic coast of the United States\u201d; and even from that time the\nnorthern part of it began to be called _La Terra Francese_, or French\nLand. A part of it was called New Holland before it was called New\nEngland. The English were very backward to explore and settle the\ncontinent which they had stumbled upon. The French preceded them both\nin their attempts to colonize the continent of North America (Carolina\nand Florida, 1562-4), and in their first permanent settlement (Port\nRoyal, 1605); and the right of possession, naturally enough, was the\none which England mainly respected and recognized in the case of Spain,\nof Portugal, and also of France, from the time of Henry VII.\n\nThe explorations of the French gave to the world the first valuable\nmaps of these coasts. Denys of Honfleur made a map of the Gulf of St.\nLawrence in 1506. No sooner had Cartier explored the St. Lawrence, in\n1535, than there began to be published by his countrymen remarkably\naccurate charts of that river as far up as Montreal. It is almost all\nof the continent north of Florida that you recognize on charts for more\nthan a generation afterward,\u2014though Verrazzani\u2019s rude plot (made under\nFrench auspices) was regarded by Hackluyt, more than fifty years after\nhis voyage (in 1524), as the most accurate representation of our coast.\nThe French trail is distinct. They went measuring and sounding, and\nwhen they got home had something to show for their voyages and\nexplorations. There was no danger of their charts being lost, as\nCabot\u2019s have been.\n\nThe most distinguished navigators of that day were Italians, or of\nItalian descent, and Portuguese. The French and Spaniards, though less\nadvanced in the science of navigation than the former, possessed more\nimagination and spirit of adventure than the English, and were better\nfitted to be the explorers of a new continent even as late as 1751.\n\nThis spirit it was which so early carried the French to the Great Lakes\nand the Mississippi on the north, and the Spaniard to the same river on\nthe south. It was long before our frontiers reached their settlements\nin the west, and a _voyageur_ or _coureur de bois_ is still our\nconductor there. Prairie is a French word, as Sierra is a Spanish one.\nAugustine in Florida, and Santa F\u00e9 in New Mexico [1582], both built by\nthe Spaniards, are considered the oldest towns in the United States.\nWithin the memory of the oldest man, the Anglo-Americans were confined\nbetween the Appalachian Mountains and the sea, \u201ca space not two hundred\nmiles broad,\u201d while the Mississippi was by treaty the eastern boundary\nof New France. (See the pamphlet on settling the Ohio, London, 1763,\nbound up with the travels of Sir John Bartram.) So far as inland\ndiscovery was concerned, the adventurous spirit of the English was that\nof sailors who land but for a day, and their enterprise the enterprise\nof traders. Cabot spoke like an Englishman, as he was, if he said, as\none reports, in reference to the discovery of the American Continent,\nwhen he found it running toward the north, that it was a great\ndisappointment to him, being in his way to India; but we would rather\nadd to than detract from the fame of so great a discoverer.\n\nSamuel Penhallow, in his history (Boston, 1726), p. 51, speaking of\n\u201cPort Royal and Nova Scotia,\u201d says of the last that its \u201cfirst seizure\nwas by Sir Sebastian Cobbet for the crown of Great Britain, in the\nreign of King Henry VII.; but lay dormant till the year 1621,\u201d when Sir\nWilliam Alexander got a patent of it, and possessed it some years; and\nafterward Sir David Kirk was proprietor of it, but erelong, \u201cto the\nsurprise of all thinking men, it was given up unto the French.\u201d\n\nEven as late as 1633 we find Winthrop, the first Governor of the\nMassachusetts Colony, who was not the most likely to be misinformed,\nwho, moreover, has the _fame_, at least, of having discovered Wachusett\nMountain (discerned it forty miles inland), talking about the \u201cGreat\nLake\u201d and the \u201chideous swamps about it,\u201d near which the Connecticut and\nthe \u201cPotomack\u201d took their rise; and among the memorable events of the\nyear 1642 he chronicles Darby Field, an Irishman\u2019s expedition to the\n\u201cWhite hill,\u201d from whose top he saw eastward what he \u201cjudged to be the\nGulf of Canada,\u201d and westward what he \u201cjudged to be the great lake\nwhich Canada River comes out of,\u201d and where he found much \u201cMuscovy\nglass,\u201d and \u201ccould rive out pieces of forty feet long and seven or\neight broad.\u201d While the very inhabitants of New England were thus\nfabling about the country a hundred miles inland, which was a _terra\nincognita_ to them,\u2014or rather many years before the earliest date\nreferred to,\u2014Champlain, the _first Governor of Canada_, not to mention\nthe inland discoveries of Cartier,[1] Roberval, and others, of the\npreceding century, and his own earlier voyage, had already gone to war\nagainst the Iroquois in their forest forts, and penetrated to the Great\nLakes and wintered there, before a Pilgrim had heard of New England.\n\nIn Champlain\u2019s \u201cVoyages,\u201d printed in 1613, there is a plate\nrepresenting a fight in which he aided the Canada Indians against the\nIroquois, near the south end of Lake Champlain, in July, 1609, eleven\nyears before the settlement of Plymouth. Bancroft says he joined the\nAlgonquins in an expedition against the Iroquois, or Five Nations, in\nthe northwest of New York. This is that \u201cGreat Lake,\u201d which the\nEnglish, hearing some rumor of from the French, long after, locate in\nan \u201cImaginary Province called Laconia, and spent several years about\n1630 in the vain attempt to discover.\u201d (Sir Ferdinand Gorges, in Maine\nHist. Coll., Vol. II., p. 68.) Thomas Morton has a chapter on this\n\u201cGreat Lake.\u201d In the edition of Champlain\u2019s map dated 1632, the Falls\nof Niagara appear; and in a great lake northwest of _Mer Douce_ (Lake\nHuron) there is an island represented, over which is written, \u201c_Isle ou\nil y a une mine de cuivre_,\u201d\u2014\u201cIsland where there is a mine of copper.\u201d\nThis will do for an offset to our Governor\u2019s \u201cMuscovy Glass.\u201d Of all\nthese adventures and discoveries we have a minute and faithful account,\ngiving facts and dates as well as charts and soundings, all scientific\nand Frenchman-like, with scarcely one fable or traveller\u2019s story.\n\nProbably Cape Cod was visited by Europeans long before the seventeenth\ncentury. It may be that Cabot himself beheld it. Verrazzani, in 1524,\naccording to his own account, spent fifteen days on our coast, in\nlatitude 41\u00b0 40 minutes (some suppose in the harbor of Newport), and\noften went five or six leagues into the interior there, and he says\nthat he sailed thence at once one hundred and fifty leagues\nnortheasterly, _always in sight of the coast_. There is a chart in\nHackluyt\u2019s \u201cDivers Voyages,\u201d made according to Verrazzani\u2019s plot, which\nlast is praised for its accuracy by Hackluyt, but I cannot distinguish\nCape Cod on it, unless it is the \u201cC. Arenas,\u201d which is in the right\nlatitude, though ten degrees west of \u201cClaudia,\u201d which is thought to be\nBlock Island.\n\nThe \u201cBiographic Universelle\u201d informs us that \u201cAn ancient manuscript\nchart drawn in 1529 by Diego Ribeiro, a Spanish cosmographer, has\npreserved the memory of the voyage of Gomez [a Portuguese sent out by\nCharles the Fifth]. One reads in it under (_au dessous_) the place\noccupied by the States of New York, Connecticut, and Rhode Island,\n_Terre d\u2019Etienne Gomez, qu\u2019il d\u00e9couvrit en_ 1525 (Land of Etienne\nGomez, which he discovered in 1525).\u201d This chart, with a memoir, was\npublished at Weimar in the last century.\n\nJean Alphonse, Roberval\u2019s pilot in Canada in 1642, one of the most\nskilful navigators of his time, and who has given remarkably minute and\naccurate direction for sailing up the St. Lawrence, showing that he\nknows what he is talking about, says in his \u201c_Routier_\u201d (it is in\nHackluyt), \u201cI have been at a bay as far as the forty-second degree,\nbetween Norimbegue [the Penobscot?] and Florida, but I have not\nexplored the bottom of it, and I do not know whether it passes from one\nland to the other,\u201d _i.e._ to Asia. (\u201c J\u2019ai \u00e9t\u00e9 \u00e0 une Baye jusques par\nles 42e degres entre la Norimbegue et la Floride; mais je n\u2019en ai pas\ncherch\u00e9 le fond, et ne s\u00e7ais pas si elle passe d\u2019une terre \u00e0 l\u2019autre.\u201d)\nThis may refer to Massachusetts Bay, if not possibly to the western\ninclination of the coast a little farther south. When he says, \u201cI have\nno doubt that the Norimbegue enters into the river of Canada,\u201d he is\nperhaps so interpreting some account which the Indians had given\nrespecting the route from the St. Lawrence to the Atlantic by the St.\nJohn, or Penobscot, or possibly even the Hudson River.\n\nWe hear rumors of this country of \u201cNorumbega\u201d and its great city from\nmany quarters. In a discourse by a great French sea-captain in\nRamusio\u2019s third volume (1556-65), this is said to be the name given to\nthe land by its inhabitants, and Verrazzani is called the discoverer of\nit; another in 1607 makes the natives call it, or the river, Aguncia.\nIt is represented as an island on an accompanying chart. It is\nfrequently spoken of by old writers as a country of indefinite extent,\nbetween Canada and Florida, and it appears as a large island with Cape\nBreton at its eastern extremity, on the map made according to\nVerrazzani\u2019s plot in Hackluyt\u2019s \u201cDivers Voyages.\u201d These maps and rumors\nmay have been the origin of the notion, common among the early\nsettlers, that New England was an island. The country and city of\nNorumbega appear about where Maine now is on a map in Ortelius\n(\u201cTheatrum Orbis Terrarum,\u201d Antwerp, 1570), and the \u201cR. Grande\u201d is\ndrawn where the Penobscot or St. John might be.\n\nIn 1604, Champlain being sent by the Sieur de Monts to explore the\ncoast of Norumbegue, sailed up the Penobscot twenty-two or twenty-three\nleagues from \u201cIsle Haute,\u201d or till he was stopped by the falls. He\nsays: \u201cI think that this river is that which many pilots and historians\ncall Norumbegue, and which the greater part have described as great and\nspacious, with numerous islands; and its entrance in the forty-third or\nforty-third and one half or, according to others, the forty-fourth\ndegree of latitude, more or less.\u201d He is convinced that \u201cthe greater\npart\u201d of those who speak of a great city there have never seen it, but\nrepeat a mere rumor, but he thinks that some have seen the mouth of the\nriver since it answers to their description.\n\nUnder date of 1607 Champlain writes: \u201cThree or four leagues north of\nthe Cap de Poitrincourt [near the head of the Bay of Fundy in Nova\nScotia] we found a cross, which was very old, covered with moss and\nalmost all decayed, which was an evident sign that there had formerly\nbeen Christians there.\u201d\n\nAlso the following passage from Lescarbot will show how much the\nneighboring coasts were frequented by Europeans in the sixteenth\ncentury. Speaking of his return from Port Royal to France in 1607, he\nsays: \u201cAt last, within four leagues of Campseau [the Gut of Canso], we\narrived at a harbor [in Nova Scotia], where a worthy old gentleman from\nSt. John de Lus, named Captain Savale, was fishing, who received us\nwith the utmost courtesy. And as this harbor, which is small, but very\ngood, has no name, I have given it on my geographical chart the name of\nSavalet. [It is on Champlain\u2019s map also.] This worthy man told us that\nthis voyage was the forty-second which he had made to those parts, and\nyet the Newfoundlanders [_Terre neuviers_] make only one a year. He was\nwonderfully content with his fishery, and informed us that he made\ndaily fifty crowns\u2019 worth of cod, and that his voyage would be worth\nten thousand francs. He had sixteen men in his employ; and his vessel\nwas of eighty tons, which could carry a hundred thousand dry cod.\u201d\n(Histoire de la Nouvelle France, 1612.) They dried their fish on the\nrocks on shore.\n\nThe \u201cIsola della R\u00e9na\u201d (Sable Island?) appears on the chart of \u201cNuova\nFrancia\u201d and Norumbega, accompanying the \u201cDiscourse\u201d above referred to\nin Ramusio\u2019s third volume, edition 1556-65. Champlain speaks of there\nbeing at the Isle of Sable, in 1604, \u201cgrass pastured by oxen (_b\u0153ufs_)\nand cows which the Portuguese carried there more than sixty years ago,\u201d\n_i.e._ sixty years before 1613; in a later edition he says, which came\nout of a Spanish vessel which was lost in endeavoring to settle on the\nIsle of Sable; and he states that De la Roche\u2019s men, who were left on\nthis island seven years from 1598, lived on the flesh of these cattle\nwhich they found \u201c_en quantie)_,\u201d and built houses out of the wrecks of\nvessels which came to the island (\u201cperhaps Gilbert\u2019s\u201d), there being no\nwood or stone. Lescarbot says that they lived \u201con fish and the milk of\ncows left there about eighty years before by Baron de Leri and Saint\nJust.\u201d Charlevoix says they ate up the cattle and then lived on fish.\nHaliburton speaks of cattle left there as a rumor. De Leri and Saint\nJust had suggested plans of colonization on the Isle of Sable as early\nas 1515 (1508?) according to Bancroft, referring to Charlevoix. These\nare but a few of the instances which I might quote.\n\nCape Cod is commonly said to have been discovered in 1602. We will\nconsider at length under what circumstances, and with what observation\nand expectations, the first Englishmen whom history clearly discerns\napproached the coast of New England. According to the accounts of\nArcher and Brereton (both of whom accompanied Gosnold), on the 26th of\nMarch, 1602, old style, Captain Bartholomew Gosnold set sail from\nFalmouth, England, for the North part of Virginia, in a small bark\ncalled the _Concord_, they being in all, says one account, \u201cthirty-two\npersons, whereof eight mariners and sailors, twelve purposing upon the\ndiscovery to return with the ship for England, the rest remain there\nfor population.\u201d This is regarded as \u201cthe first attempt of the English\nto make a settlement within the limits of New England.\u201d Pursuing a new\nand a shorter course than the usual one by the Canaries, \u201cthe 14th of\nApril following\u201d they had sight of Saint Mary\u2019s, an island of the\nAzores. As their sailors were few and \u201cnone of the best\u201d (I use their\nown phrases), and they were \u201cgoing upon an unknown coast,\u201d they were\nnot \u201coverbold to stand in with the shore but in open weather\u201d; so they\nmade their first discovery of land with the lead. The 23d of April the\nocean appeared yellow, but on taking up some of the water in a bucket,\n\u201cit altered not either in color or taste from the sea azure.\u201d The 7th\nof May they saw divers birds whose names they knew, and many others in\ntheir \u201cEnglish tongue of no name.\u201d The 8th of May \u201cthe water changed to\na yellowish green, where at seventy fathoms\u201d they \u201chad ground.\u201d The\n9th, they had upon their lead \u201cmany glittering stones,\u201d\u2014\u201cwhich might\npromise some mineral matter in the bottom.\u201d The 10th, they were over a\nbank which they thought to be near the western end of St. John\u2019s\nIsland, and saw schools of fish. The 12th, they say, \u201ccontinually\npassed fleeting by us sea-oare, which seemed to have their movable\ncourse towards the northeast.\u201d On the 13th, they observed \u201cgreat beds\nof weeds, much wood, and divers things else floating by,\u201d and \u201chad\nsmelling of the shore much as from the southern Cape and Andalusia in\nSpain.\u201d On Friday, the 14th, early in the morning they descried land on\nthe north, in the latitude of forty-three degrees, apparently some part\nof the coast of Maine. Williamson (History of Maine) says it certainly\ncould not have been south of the central Isle of Shoals. Belknap\ninclines to think it the south side of Cape Ann. Standing fair along by\nthe shore, about twelve o\u2019clock the same day, they came to anchor and\nwere visited by eight savages, who came off to them \u201cin a Biscay\nshallop, with sail and oars,\u201d\u2014\u201can iron grapple, and a kettle of\ncopper.\u201d These they at first mistook for \u201cChristians distressed.\u201d One\nof them was \u201capparelled with a waistcoat and breeches of black serge,\nmade after our sea-fashion, hoes and shoes on his feet; all the rest\n(saving one that had a pair of breeches of blue cloth) were naked.\u201d\nThey appeared to have had dealings with \u201csome Basques of St. John de\nLuz, and to understand much more than we,\u201d say the English, \u201cfor want\nof language, could comprehend.\u201d But they soon \u201cset sail westward,\nleaving them and their coast.\u201d (This was a remarkable discovery for\ndiscoverers.)\n\n\u201cThe 15th day,\u201d writes Gabriel Archer, \u201cwe had again sight of the land,\nwhich made ahead, being as we thought an island, by reason of a large\nsound that appeared westward between it and the main, for coming to the\nwest end thereof, we did perceive a large opening, we called it Shoal\nHope. Near this cape we came to anchor in fifteen fathoms, where we\ntook great store of cod-fish, for which we altered the name and called\nit Cape Cod. Here we saw skulls of herring, mackerel, and other small\nfish, in great abundance. This is a low sandy shoal, but without\ndanger; also we came to anchor again in sixteen fathoms, fair by the\nland in the latitude of forty-two degrees. This Cape is well near a\nmile broad, and lieth northeast by east. The captain went here ashore,\nand found the ground to be full of peas, strawberries, whortleberries,\netc., as then unripe, the sand also by the shore somewhat deep; the\nfirewood there by us taken in was of cypress, birch, witch-hazel, and\nbeach. A young Indian came here to the captain, armed with his bow and\narrows, and had certain plates of copper hanging at his ears; he showed\na willingness to help us in our occasions.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe 16th we trended the coast southerly, which was all champaign and\nfull of grass, but the islands somewhat woody.\u201d\n\nOr, according to the account of John Brereton, \u201criding here,\u201d that is,\nwhere they first communicated with the natives, \u201cin no very good\nharbor, and withal doubting the weather, about three of the clock the\nsame day in the afternoon we weighed, and standing southerly off into\nsea the rest of that day and the night following, with a fresh gale of\nwind, in the morning we found ourselves embayed with a mighty headland;\nbut coming to an anchor about nine of the clock the same day, within a\nleague of the shore, we hoisted out the one half of our shallop, and\nCaptain Bartholomew Gosnold, myself and three others, went ashore,\nbeing a white sandy and very bold shore; and marching all that\nafternoon with our muskets on our necks, on the highest hills which we\nsaw (the weather very hot), at length we perceived this headland to be\nparcel of the main, and sundry islands lying almost round about it; so\nreturning towards evening to our shallop (for by that time the other\npart was brought ashore and set together), we espied an Indian, a young\nman of proper stature, and of a pleasing countenance, and after some\nfamiliarity with him, we left him at the sea side, and returned to our\nship, where in five or six hours\u2019 absence we had pestered our ship so\nwith codfish, that we threw numbers of them overboard again; and surely\nI am persuaded that in the months of March, April, and May, there is\nupon this coast better fishing, and in as great plenty, as in\nNewfoundland; for the skulls of mackerel, herrings, cod, and other\nfish, that we daily saw as we went and came from the shore, were\nwonderful,\u201d etc.\n\n\u201cFrom this place we sailed round about this headland, almost all the\npoints of the compass, the shore very bold; but as no coast is free\nfrom dangers, so I am persuaded this is as free as any. The land\nsomewhat low, full of goodly woods, but in some places plain.\u201d\n\nIt is not quite clear on which side of the Cape they landed. If it was\ninside, as would appear from Brereton\u2019s words, \u201cFrom this place we\nsailed round about this headland almost all the points of the compass,\u201d\nit must have been on the western shore either of Truro or Wellfleet. To\none sailing south into Barnstable Bay along the Cape, the only \u201cwhite,\nsandy, and very bold shore\u201d that appears is in these towns, though the\nbank is not so high there as on the eastern side. At a distance of four\nor five miles the sandy cliffs there look like a long fort of yellow\nsandstone, they are so level and regular, especially in Wellfleet,\u2014the\nfort of the land defending itself against the encroachments of the\nOcean. They are streaked here and there with a reddish sand as if\npainted. Farther south the shore is more flat, and less _obviously_ and\nabruptly sandy, and a little tinge of green here and there in the\nmarshes appears to the sailor like a rare and precious emerald. But in\nthe Journal of Pring\u2019s Voyage the next year (and Salterne, who was with\nPring, had accompanied Gosnold) it is said, \u201cDeparting hence [_i.e._\nfrom Savage Rocks] we bore unto that great gulf which Captain Gosnold\novershot the year before.\u201d[2]\n\nSo they sailed round the Cape, calling the southeasterly extremity\n\u201cPoint Cave,\u201d till they came to an island which they named Martha\u2019s\nVineyard (now called No Man\u2019s Land), and another on which they dwelt\nawhile, which they named Elizabeth\u2019s Island, in honor of the Queen, one\nof the group since so called, now known by its Indian name Cuttyhunk.\nThere they built a small storehouse, the first house built by the\nEnglish in New England, whose cellar could recently still be seen, made\npartly of stones taken from the beach. Bancroft says (edition of 1837),\nthe ruins of the fort can no longer be discerned. They who were to have\nremained becoming discontented, all together set sail for England with\na load of sassafras and other commodities, on the 18th of June\nfollowing.\n\nThe next year came Martin Pring, looking for sassafras, and thereafter\nthey began to come thick and fast, until long after sassafras had lost\nits reputation.\n\nThese are the oldest accounts which we have of Cape Cod, unless,\nperchance, Cape Cod is, as some suppose, the same with that\n\u201cKial-ar-nes\u201d or Keel-Cape, on which, according to old Icelandic\nmanuscripts, Thorwald, son of Eric the Red, after sailing many days\nsouthwest from Greenland, broke his keel in the year 1004; and where,\naccording to another, in some respects less trustworthy manuscript,\nThor-finn Karlsefue (\u201cthat is, one who promises or is destined to be an\nable or great man\u201d; he is said to have had a son born in New England,\nfrom whom Thorwaldsen the sculptor was descended), sailing past, in the\nyear 1007, with his wife Gudrida, Snorre Thorbrandson, Biarne\nGrinolfson, and Thorhall Garnlason, distinguished Norsemen, in three\nships containing \u201cone hundred and sixty men and all sorts of live\nstock\u201d (probably the first Norway rats among the rest), having the land\n\u201con the right side\u201d of them, \u201croved ashore,\u201d and found \u201c_\u00f6r-\u00e6fi_\n(trackless deserts),\u201d and \u201c_Strand-ir l\u00e1ng-ar ok sand-ar_ (long narrow\nbeaches and sand-hills),\u201d and \u201ccalled the shores _Furdustrand-ir_\n(Wonder-Strands), because the sailing by them seemed long.\u201d\n\nAccording to the Icelandic manuscripts, _Thorwald_ was the first,\nthen,\u2014unless possibly one Biarne Heriulfson (_i.e._ son of Heriulf) who\nhad been seized with a great desire to travel, sailing from Iceland to\nGreenland in the year 986 to join his father who had migrated thither,\nfor he had resolved, says the manuscript, \u201cto spend the following\nwinter, like all the preceding ones, with his father,\u201d\u2014being driven far\nto the southwest by a storm, when it cleared up saw the low land of\nCape Cod looming faintly in the distance; but this not answering to the\ndescription of Greenland, he put his vessel about, and, sailing\nnorthward along the coast, at length reached Greenland and his father.\nAt any rate, he may put forth a strong claim to be regarded as the\ndiscoverer of the American continent.\n\nThese Northmen were a hardy race, whose younger sons inherited the\nocean, and traversed it without chart or compass, and they are said to\nhave been \u201cthe first who learned the art of sailing on a wind.\u201d\nMoreover, they had a habit of casting their door-posts overboard and\nsettling wherever they went ashore. But as Biarne, and Thorwald, and\nThorfinn have not mentioned the latitude and longitude distinctly\nenough, though we have great respect for them as skilful and\nadventurous navigators, we must for the present remain in doubt as to\nwhat capes they did see. We think that they were considerably further\nnorth.\n\nIf time and space permitted, I could present the claims of other\nseveral worthy persons. Lescarbot, in 1609, asserts that the French\nsailors had been accustomed to frequent the Newfoundland Banks from\ntime immemorial, \u201cfor the codfish with which they feed almost all\nEurope and supply all sea-going vessels,\u201d and accordingly \u201cthe language\nof the nearest lands is half Basque\u201d; and he quotes Postel, a learned\nbut extravagant French author, born in 1510, only six years after the\nBasques, Bretons, and Normans are said to have discovered the Grand\nBank and adjacent islands, as saying, in his _Charte G\u00e9ographique_,\nwhich we have not seen: \u201cTerra haec ob lucrosissimam piscationis\nutilitatem summa litterarum memoria a Gallis adiri solita, et ante\nmille sexcentos annos frequentari solita est; sed eo quod sit urbibus\ninculta et vasta, spreta est.\u201d \u201cThis land, on account of its very\nlucrative fishery, was accustomed to be visited by the Gauls from the\nvery dawn of history, and more than sixteen hundred years ago was\naccustomed to be frequented; but because it was unadorned with cities,\nand waste, it was despised.\u201d\n\nIt is the old story. Bob Smith discovered the mine, but I discovered it\nto the world. And now Bob Smith is putting in his claim.\n\nBut let us not laugh at Postel and his visions. He was perhaps better\nposted up than we; and if he does seem to draw the long bow, it may be\nbecause he had a long way to shoot,\u2014quite across the Atlantic, If\nAmerica was found and lost again once, as most of us believe, then why\nnot twice? especially as there were likely to be so few records of an\nearlier discovery. Consider what stuff history is made of,\u2014that for the\nmost part it is merely a story agreed on by posterity. Who will tell us\neven how many Russians were engaged in the battle of the Chernaya, the\nother day? Yet no doubt, Mr. Scriblerus, the historian, will fix on a\ndefinite number for the schoolboys to commit to their excellent\nmemories. What, then, of the number of Persians at Salamis? The\nhistorian whom I read knew as much about the position of the parties\nand their tactics in the last-mentioned affair, as they who describe a\nrecent battle in an article for the press now-a-days, before the\nparticulars have arrived. I believe that, if I were to live the life of\nmankind over again myself (which I would not be hired to do), with the\nUniversal History in my hands, I should not be able to tell what was\nwhat.\n\nEarlier than the date Postel refers to, at any rate. Cape Cod lay in\nutter darkness to the civilized world, though even then the sun rose\nfrom eastward out of the sea every day, and, rolling over the Cape,\nwent down westward into the Bay. It was even then Cape and Bay,\u2014ay, the\nCape of _Codfish_, and the Bay of the _Massachusetts_, perchance.\n\nQuite recently, on the 11th of November, 1620, old style, as is well\nknown, the Pilgrims in the _Mayflower_ came to anchor in Cape Cod\nharbor. They had loosed from Plymouth, England, the 6th of September,\nand, in the words of \u201cMourts\u2019 Relation,\u201d \u201cafter many difficulties in\nboisterous storms, at length, by God\u2019s providence, upon the 9th of\nNovember, we espied land, which we deemed to be Cape Cod, and so\nafterward it proved. Upon the 11th of November we came to anchor in the\nbay, which is a good harbor and pleasant bay, circled round except in\nthe entrance, which is about four miles over from land to land,\ncompassed about to the very sea with oaks, pines, juniper, sassafras,\nand other sweet wood. It is a harbor wherein a thousand sail of ships\nmay safely ride. There we relieved ourselves with wood and water, and\nrefreshed our people, while our shallop was fitted to coast the bay, to\nsearch for an habitation.\u201d There we put up at Fuller\u2019s Hotel, passing\nby the Pilgrim House as too high for us (we learned afterward that we\nneed not have been so particular), and we refreshed ourselves with\nhashed fish and beans, beside taking in a supply of liquids (which were\nnot intoxicating), while our legs were refitted to coast the back-side.\nFurther say the Pilgrims: \u201cWe could not come near the shore by three\nquarters of an English mile, because of shallow water; which was a\ngreat prejudice to us; for our people going on shore were forced to\nwade a bow-shot or two in going aland, which caused many to get colds\nand coughs; for it was many times freezing cold weather.\u201d They\nafterwards say: \u201cIt brought much weakness amongst us\u201d; and no doubt it\nled to the death of some at Plymouth.\n\nThe harbor of Provincetown is very shallow near the shore, especially\nabout the head, where the Pilgrims landed. When I left this place the\nnext summer, the steamer could not get up to the wharf, but we were\ncarried out to a large boat in a cart as much as thirty rods in shallow\nwater, while a troop of little boys kept us company, wading around, and\nthence we pulled to the steamer by a rope. The harbor being thus\nshallow and sandy about the shore, coasters are accustomed to run in\nhere to paint their vessels, which are left high and dry when the tide\ngoes down.\n\nIt chanced that the Sunday morning that we were there, I had joined a\nparty of men who were smoking and lolling over a pile of boards on one\nof the wharves (_nihil humanum a me, etc_.), when our landlord, who was\na sort of tithing-man, went off to stop some sailors who were engaged\nin painting their vessel. Our party was recruited from time to time by\nother citizens, who came rubbing their eyes as if they had just got out\nof bed; and one old man remarked to me that it was the custom there to\nlie abed very late on Sunday, it being a day of rest. I remarked that,\nas I thought, they might as well let the men paint, for all us. It was\nnot noisy work, and would not disturb our devotions. But a young man in\nthe company, taking his pipe out of his mouth, said that it was a plain\ncontradiction of the law of God, which he quoted, and if they did not\nhave some such regulation, vessels would run in there to tar, and rig,\nand paint, and they would have no Sabbath at all. This was a good\nargument enough, if he had not put it in the name of religion. The next\nsummer, as I sat on a hill there one sultry Sunday afternoon the\nmeeting-house windows being open, my meditations were interrupted by\nthe noise of a preacher who shouted like a boatswain, profaning the\nquiet atmosphere, and who, I fancied, must have taken off his coat. Few\nthings could have been more disgusting or disheartening. I wished the\ntithing-man would stop him.\n\n[Illustration: The day of rest]\n\nThe Pilgrims say: \u201cThere was the greatest store of fowl that ever we\nsaw.\u201d\n\nWe saw no fowl there, except gulls of various kinds; but the greatest\nstore of them that ever we saw was on a flat but slightly covered with\nwater on the east side of the harbor, and we observed a man who had\nlanded there from a boat creeping along the shore in order to get a\nshot at them, but they all rose and flew away in a great scattering\nflock, too soon for him, having apparently got their dinners, though he\ndid not get his.\n\nIt is remarkable that the Pilgrims (or their reporter) describe this\npart of the Cape, not only as well wooded, but as having a deep and\nexcellent soil, and hardly mention the word _sand_. Now what strikes\nthe voyager is the barrenness and desolation of the land. _They_ found\n\u201cthe ground or earth sand-hills, much like the downs in Holland, but\nmuch better the crust of the earth, a spit\u2019s depth, excellent black\nearth.\u201d _We_ found that the earth had lost its crust,\u2014if, in-deed, it\never had any,\u2014and that there was no soil to speak of. We did not see\nenough black earth in Provincetown to fill a flower-pot, unless in the\nswamps. They found it \u201call wooded with oaks, pines, sassafras, juniper,\nbirch, holly, vines, some ash, walnut; the wood for the most part open\nand without underwood, fit either to go or ride in.\u201d We saw scarcely\nanything high enough to be called a tree, except a little low wood at\nthe east end of the town, and the few ornamental trees in its\nyards,\u2014only a few small specimens of some of the above kinds on the\nsand-hills in the rear; but it was all thick shrubbery, without any\nlarge wood above it, very unfit either to go or ride in. The greater\npart of the land was a perfect desert of yellow sand, rippled like\nwaves by the wind, in which only a little Beach-grass grew here and\nthere. They say that, just after passing the head of East Harbor Creek,\nthe boughs and bushes \u201ctore\u201d their \u201cvery armor in pieces\u201d (the same\nthing happened to such armor as we wore, when out of curiosity we took\nto the bushes); or they came to deep valleys, \u201cfull of brush,\nwood-gaile, and long grass,\u201d and \u201cfound springs of fresh water.\u201d\n\nFor the most part we saw neither bough nor bush, not so much as a shrub\nto tear our clothes against if we would, and a sheep would lose none of\nits fleece, even if it found herbage enough to make fleece grow there.\nWe saw rather beach and poverty-grass, and merely sorrel enough to\ncolor the surface. I suppose, then, by Woodgaile they mean the\nBayberry.\n\nAll accounts agree in affirming that this part of the Cape was\n_comparatively_ well wooded a century ago. But notwithstanding the\ngreat changes which have taken place in these respects, I cannot but\nthink that we must make some allowance for the greenness of the\nPilgrims in these matters, which caused them to see green. We do not\nbelieve that the trees were large or the soil was deep here. Their\naccount may be true particularly, but it is generally false. They saw\nliterally, as well as figuratively, but one side of the Cape. They\nnaturally exaggerated the fairness and attractiveness of the land, for\nthey were glad to get to any land at all after that anxious voyage.\nEverything appeared to them of the color of the rose, and had the scent\nof juniper and sassafras. Very different is the general and off-hand\naccount given by Captain John Smith, who was on this coast six years\nearlier, and speaks like an old traveller, voyager, and soldier, who\nhad seen too much of the world to exaggerate, or even to dwell long, on\na part of it. In his \u201cDescription of New England,\u201d printed in 1616,\nafter speaking of Accomack, since called Plymouth, he says: \u201cCape Cod\nis the next presents itself, which is only a headland of high hills of\nsand, overgrown with shrubby pines, _hurts_ [i.e. whorts, or\nwhortleberries], and such trash, but an excellent harbor for all\nweathers. This Cape is made by the main sea on the one side, and a\ngreat bay on the other, in form of a sickle.\u201d Champlain had already\nwritten, \u201cWhich we named _Cap Blanc_ (Cape White), because they were\nsands and downs (_sables et dunes_) which appeared thus.\u201d\n\nWhen the Pilgrims get to Plymouth their reporter says again, \u201cThe land\nfor the crust of the earth is a spit\u2019s depth,\u201d\u2014that would seem to be\ntheir recipe for an earth\u2019s crust,\u2014\u201cexcellent black mould and fat in\nsome places.\u201d However, according to Bradford himself, whom some\nconsider the author of part of \u201cMourt\u2019s Relation,\u201d they who came over\nin the _Fortune_ the next year were somewhat daunted when \u201cthey came\ninto the harbor of Cape Cod, and there saw nothing but a naked and\nbarren place.\u201d They soon found out their mistake with respect to the\ngoodness of Plymouth soil. Yet when at length, some years later, when\nthey were fully satisfied of the poorness of the place which they had\nchosen, \u201cthe greater part,\u201d says Bradford, \u201cconsented to a removal to a\nplace called Nausett,\u201d they agreed to remove all together to Nauset,\nnow Eastham, which was jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire; and\nsome of the most respectable of the inhabitants of Plymouth did\nactually remove thither accordingly.\n\nIt must be confessed that the Pilgrims possessed but few of the\nqualities of the modern pioneer. They were not the ancestors of the\nAmerican backwoodsmen. They did not go at once into the woods with\ntheir axes. They were a family and church, and were more anxious to\nkeep together, though it were on the sand, than to explore and colonize\na New World. When the above-mentioned company removed to Eastham, the\nchurch at Plymouth was left, to use Bradford\u2019s expression, \u201clike an\nancient mother grown old, and forsaken of her children.\u201d Though they\nlanded on Clark\u2019s Island in Plymouth harbor, the 9th of December (O.\nS.), and the 16th all hands came to Plymouth, and the 18th they rambled\nabout the mainland, and the 19th decided to settle there, it was the\n8th of January before Francis Billington went with one of the master\u2019s\nmates to look at the magnificent pond or lake now called \u201cBillington\nSea,\u201d about two miles distant, which he had discovered from the top of\na tree, and mistook for a great sea. And the 7th of March \u201cMaster\nCarver with five others went to the great ponds which seem to be\nexcellent fishing,\u201d both which points are within the compass of an\nordinary afternoon\u2019s ramble,\u2014however wild the country. It is true they\nwere busy at first about their building, and were hindered in that by\nmuch foul weather; but a party of emigrants to California or Oregon,\nwith no less work on their hands,\u2014and more hostile Indians,\u2014would do as\nmuch exploring the first afternoon, and the Sieur de Champlain would\nhave sought an interview with the savages, and examined the country as\nfar as the Connecticut, and made a map of it, before Billington had\nclimbed his tree. Or contrast them only with the French searching for\ncopper about the Bay of Fundy in 1603, tracing up small streams with\nIndian guides. Nevertheless, the Pilgrims were pioneers and the\nancestors of pioneers, in a far grander enterprise.\n\nBy this time we saw the little steamer _Naushon_ entering the harbor,\nand heard the sound of her whistle, and came down from the hills to\nmeet her at the wharf. So we took leave of Cape Cod and its\ninhabitants. We liked the manners of the last, what little we saw of\nthem, very much. They were particularly downright and good-humored. The\nold people appeared remarkably well preserved, as if by the saltness of\nthe atmosphere, and after having once mistaken, we could never be\ncertain whether we were talking to a coeval of our grandparents, or to\none of our own age. They are said to be more purely the descendants of\nthe Pilgrims than the inhabitants of any other part of the State. We\nwere told that \u201csometimes, when the court comes together at Barnstable,\nthey have not a single criminal to try, and the jail is shut up.\u201d It\nwas \u201cto let\u201d when we were there. Until quite recently there was no\nregular lawyer below Orleans. Who then will complain of a few regular\nman-eating sharks along the back-side?\n\nOne of the ministers of Truro, when I asked what the fishermen did in\nthe winter, answered that they did nothing but go a-visiting, sit about\nand tell stories,\u2014though they worked hard in summer. Yet it is not a\nlong vacation they get. I am sorry that I have not been there in the\nwinter to hear their yarns. Almost every Cape man is Captain of some\ncraft or other,\u2014every man at least who is at the head of his own\naffairs, though it is not every one that is, for some heads have the\nforce of _Alpha privative_, negativing all the efforts which Nature\nwould fain make through them. The greater number of men are merely\ncorporals. It is worth the while to talk with one whom his neighbors\naddress as Captain, though his craft may have long been sunk, and he\nmay be holding by his teeth to the shattered mast of a pipe alone, and\nonly gets half-seas-over in a figurative sense, now. He is pretty sure\nto vindicate his right to the title at last,\u2014can tell one or two good\nstories at least.\n\nFor the most part we saw only the back-side of the towns, but our story\nis true as far as it goes. We might have made more of the Bay side, but\nwe were inclined to open our eyes widest at the Atlantic. We did not\ncare to see those features of the Cape in which it is inferior or\nmerely equal to the mainland, but only those in which it is peculiar or\nsuperior. We cannot say how its towns look in front to one who goes to\nmeet them; we went to see the ocean behind them. They were merely the\nraft on which we stood, and we took notice of the barnacles which\nadhered to it, and some carvings upon it.\n\nBefore we left the wharf we made the acquaintance of a passenger whom\nwe had seen at the hotel. When we asked him which way he came to\nProvincetown, he answered that he was cast ashore at Wood End, Saturday\nnight, in the same storm in which the _St. John_ was wrecked. He had\nbeen at work as a carpenter in Maine, and took passage for Boston in a\nschooner laden with lumber. When the storm came up, they endeavored to\nget into Provincetown harbor. \u201cIt was dark and misty,\u201d said he, \u201cand as\nwe were steering for Long Point Light we suddenly saw the land near\nus,\u2014for our compass was out of order,\u2014varied several degrees [a mariner\nalways casts the blame on his compass],\u2014but there being a mist on\nshore, we thought it was farther off than it was, and so held on, and\nwe immediately struck on the bar. Says the Captain, \u2018We are all lost.\u2019\nSays I to the Captain, \u2018Now don\u2019t let her strike again this way; head\nher right on.\u2019 The Captain thought a moment, and then headed her on.\nThe sea washed completely over us, and wellnigh took the breath out of\nmy body. I held on to the running rigging, but I have learned to hold\non to the standing rigging the next time.\u201d \u201cWell, were there any\ndrowned?\u201d I asked. \u201cNo; we all got safe to a house at Wood End, at\nmidnight, wet to our skins, and half frozen to death.\u201d He had\napparently spent the time since playing checkers at the hotel, and was\ncongratulating himself on having beaten a tall fellow-boarder at that\ngame. \u201cThe vessel is to be sold at auction to-day,\u201d he added. (We had\nheard the sound of the crier\u2019s bell which advertised it.) \u201cThe Captain\nis rather down about it, but I tell him to cheer up and he will soon\nget another vessel.\u201d\n\nAt that moment the Captain called to him from the wharf. He looked like\na man just from the country, with a cap made of a woodchuck\u2019s skin, and\nnow that I had heard a part of his history, he appeared singularly\ndestitute,\u2014a Captain without any vessel, only a greatcoat! and that\nperhaps a borrowed one! Not even a dog followed him; only his title\nstuck to him. I also saw one of the crew. They all had caps of the same\npattern, and wore a subdued look, in addition to their naturally\naquiline features, as if a breaker\u2014a \u201ccomber\u201d\u2014had washed over them. As\nwe passed Wood End, we noticed the pile of lumber on the shore which\nhad made the cargo of their vessel.\n\nAbout Long Point in the summer you commonly see them catching lobsters\nfor the New York market, from small boats just off the shore, or\nrather, the lobsters catch themselves, for they cling to the netting on\nwhich the bait is placed of their own accord, and thus are drawn up.\nThey sell them fresh for two cents apiece. Man needs to know but little\nmore than a lobster in order to catch him in his traps. The mackerel\nfleet had been getting to sea, one after another, ever since midnight,\nand as we were leaving the Cape we passed near to many of them under\nsail, and got a nearer view than we had had;\u2014half a dozen red-shirted\nmen and boys, leaning over the rail to look at us, the skipper shouting\nback the number of barrels he had caught, in answer to our inquiry. All\nsailors pause to watch a steamer, and shout in welcome or derision. In\none a large Newfoundland dog put his paws on the rail and stood up as\nhigh as any of them, and looked as wise. But the skipper, who did not\nwish to be seen no better employed than a dog, rapped him on the nose\nand sent him below. Such is human justice! I thought I could hear him\nmaking an effective appeal down there from human to divine justice. He\nmust have had much the cleanest breast of the two.\n\n[Illustration: A Provincetown fishing-vessel]\n\nStill, many a mile behind us across the Bay, we saw the white sails of\nthe mackerel fishers hovering round Cape Cod, and when they were all\nhull-down, and the low extremity of the Cape was also down, their white\nsails still appeared on both sides of it, around where it had sunk,\nlike a city on the ocean, proclaiming the rare qualities of Cape Cod\nHarbor. But before the extremity of the Cape had completely sunk, it\nappeared like a filmy sliver of land lying flat on the ocean, and later\nstill a mere reflection of a sand-bar on the haze above. Its name\nsuggests a homely truth, but it would be more poetic if it described\nthe impression which it makes on the beholder. Some capes have\npeculiarly suggestive names. There is Cape Wrath, the northwest point\nof Scotland, for instance; what a good name for a cape lying far away\ndark over the water under a lowering sky!\n\nMild as it was on shore this morning, the wind was cold and piercing on\nthe water. Though it be the hottest day in July on land, and the voyage\nis to last but four hours, take your thickest clothes with you, for you\nare about to float over melted icebergs. When I left Boston in the\nsteamboat on the 25th of June the next year, it was a quite warm day on\nshore. The passengers were dressed in their thinnest clothes, and at\nfirst sat under their umbrellas, but when we were fairly out on the\nBay, such as had only their coats were suffering with the cold, and\nsought the shelter of the pilot\u2019s house and the warmth of the chimney.\nBut when we approached the harbor of Provincetown, I was surprised to\nperceive what an influence that low and narrow strip of sand, only a\nmile or two in width, had over the temperature of the air for many\nmiles around. We penetrated into a sultry atmosphere where our thin\ncoats were once more in fashion, and found the inhabitants sweltering.\n\nLeaving far on one side Manomet Point in Plymouth and the Scituate\nshore, after being out of sight of land for an hour or two, for it was\nrather hazy, we neared the Cohasset Rocks again at Minot\u2019s Ledge, and\nsaw the great Tupelo-tree on the edge of Scituate, which lifts its\ndome, like an umbelliferous plant, high over the surrounding forest,\nand is conspicuous for many miles over land and water. Here was the new\niron light-house, then unfinished, in the shape of an egg-shell painted\nred, and placed high on iron pillars, like the ovum of a sea monster\nfloating on the waves,\u2014destined to be phosphorescent. As we passed it\nat half-tide we saw the spray tossed up nearly to the shell. A man was\nto live in that egg-shell day and night, a mile from the shore. When I\npassed it the next summer it was finished and two men lived in it, and\na light-house keeper said that they told him that in a recent gale it\nhad rocked so as to shake the plates off the table. Think of making\nyour bed thus in the crest of a breaker! To have the waves, like a pack\nof hungry wolves, eying you always, night and day, and from time to\ntime making a spring at you, almost sure to have you at last. And not\none of all those voyagers can come to your relief,\u2014but when your light\ngoes out, it will be a sign that the light of your life has gone out\nalso. What a place to compose a work on breakers! This light-house was\nthe cynosure of all eyes. Every passenger watched it for half an hour\nat least; yet a colored cook belonging to the boat, whom I had seen\ncome out of his quarters several times to empty his dishes over the\nside with a flourish, chancing to come out just as we were abreast of\nthis light, and not more than forty rods from it, and were all gazing\nat it, as he drew back his arm, caught sight of it, and with surprise\nexclaimed, \u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d He had been employed on this boat for a year,\nand passed this light every weekday, but as he had never chanced to\nempty his dishes just at that point, had never seen it before. To look\nat lights was the pilot\u2019s business; he minded the kitchen fire. It\nsuggested how little some who voyaged round the world could manage to\nsee. You would almost as easily believe that there are men who never\nyet chanced to come out at the right time to see the sun. What avails\nit though a light be placed on the top of a hill, if you spend all your\nlife directly under the hill? It might as well be under a bushel. This\nlight-house, as is well known, was swept away in a storm in April,\n1851, and the two men in it, and the next morning not a vestige of it\nwas to be seen from the shore.\n\nA Hull man told me that he helped set up a white-oak pole on Minot\u2019s\nLedge some years before. It was fifteen inches in diameter, forty-one\nfeet high, sunk four feet in the rock, and was secured by four\nguys,\u2014but it stood only one year. Stone piled up cob-fashion near the\nsame place stood eight years.\n\nWhen I crossed the Bay in the _Melrose_ in July, we hugged the Scituate\nshore as long as possible, in order to take advantage of the wind. Far\nout on the Bay (off this shore) we scared up a brood of young ducks,\nprobably black ones, bred hereabouts, which the packet had frequently\ndisturbed in her trips. A townsman, who was making the voyage for the\nfirst time, walked slowly round into the rear of the helmsman, when we\nwere in the middle of the Bay, and looking out over the sea, before he\nsat down there, remarked with as much originality as was possible for\none who used a borrowed expression, \u201cThis is a great country.\u201d He had\nbeen a timber merchant, and I afterwards saw him taking the diameter of\nthe mainmast with his stick, and estimating its height. I returned from\nthe same excursion in the _Olata_, a very handsome and swift-sailing\nyacht, which left Provincetown at the same time with two other packets,\nthe _Melrose_ and _Frolic_. At first there was scarcely a breath of air\nstirring, and we loitered about Long Point for an hour in company,\u2014with\nour heads over the rail watching the great sand-circles and the fishes\nat the bottom in calm water fifteen feet deep. But after clearing the\nCape we rigged a flying-jib, and, as the Captain had prophesied, soon\nshowed our consorts our heels. There was a steamer six or eight miles\nnorthward, near the Cape, towing a large ship toward Boston. Its smoke\nstretched perfectly horizontal several miles over the sea, and by a\nsudden change in its direction, warned us of a change in the wind\nbefore we felt it. The steamer appeared very far from the ship, and\nsome young men who had frequently used the Captain\u2019s glass, but did not\nsuspect that the vessels were connected, expressed surprise that they\nkept about the same distance apart for so many hours. At which the\nCaptain dryly remarked, that probably they would never get any nearer\ntogether. As long as the wind held we kept pace with the steamer, but\nat length it died away almost entirely, and the flying-jib did all the\nwork. When we passed the light-boat at Minot\u2019s Ledge, the _Melrose_ and\n_Frolic_ were just visible ten miles astern.\n\nConsider the islands bearing the names of all the saints, bristling\nwith forts like chestnuts-burs, or _echinid\u00e6_, yet the police will not\nlet a couple of Irishmen have a private sparring-match on one of them,\nas it is a government monopoly; all the great seaports are in a boxing\nattitude, and you must sail prudently between two tiers of stony\nknuckles before you come to feel the warmth of their breasts.\n\nThe Bermudas are said to have been discovered by a Spanish ship of that\nname which was wrecked on them, \u201cwhich till then,\u201d says Sir John Smith,\n\u201cfor six thousand years had been nameless.\u201d The English did not stumble\nupon them in their first voyages to Virginia; and the first Englishman\nwho was ever there was wrecked on them in 1593. Smith says, \u201cNo place\nknown hath better walls nor a broader ditch.\u201d Yet at the very first\nplanting of them with some sixty persons, in 1612, the first Governor,\nthe same year, \u201cbuilt and laid the foundation of eight or nine forts.\u201d\nTo be ready, one would say, to entertain the first ship\u2019s company that\nshould be next shipwrecked on to them. It would have been more sensible\nto have built as many \u201cCharity-houses.\u201d These are the vexed\nBermoothees.\n\nOur great sails caught all the air there was, and our low and narrow\nhull caused the least possible friction. Coming up the harbor against\nthe stream we swept by everything. Some young men returning from a\nfishing excursion came to the side of their smack, while we were thus\nsteadily drawing by them, and, bowing, observed, with the best possible\ngrace, \u201cWe give it up.\u201d Yet sometimes we were nearly at a standstill.\nThe sailors watched (two) objects on the shore to ascertain whether we\nadvanced or receded. In the harbor it was like the evening of a\nholiday. The Eastern steamboat passed us with music and a cheer, as if\nthey were going to a ball, when they might be going to\u2014Davy\u2019s locker.\n\nI heard a boy telling the story of Nix\u2019s mate to some girls as we\npassed that spot. That was the name of a sailor hung there, he\nsaid.\u2014\u201cIf I am guilty, this island will remain; but if I am innocent it\nwill be washed away,\u201d and now it is all washed away!\n\nNext (?) came the fort on George\u2019s Island. These are bungling\ncontrivances: not our _fortes_ but our _foibles_. Wolfe sailed by the\nstrongest fort in North America in the dark, and took it.\n\nI admired the skill with which the vessel was at last brought to her\nplace in the dock, near the end of Long Wharf. It was candle-light, and\nmy eyes could not distinguish the wharves jutting out towards us, but\nit appeared like an even line of shore densely crowded with shipping.\nYou could not have guessed within a quarter of a mile of Long Wharf.\nNevertheless, we were to be blown to a crevice amid them,\u2014steering\nright into the maze. Down goes the mainsail, and only the jib draws us\nalong. Now we are within four rods of the shipping, having already\ndodged several outsiders; but it is still only a maze of spars, and\nrigging, and hulls,\u2014not a crack can be seen. Down goes the jib, but\nstill we advance. The Captain stands aft with one hand on the tiller,\nand the other holding his night-glass,\u2014his son stands on the bowsprit\nstraining his eyes,\u2014the passengers feel their hearts halfway to their\nmouths, expecting a crash. \u201cDo you see any room there?\u201d asks the\nCaptain, quietly. He must make up his mind in five seconds, else he\nwill carry away that vessel\u2019s bowsprit, or lose his own. \u201cYes, sir,\nhere is a place for us\u201d; and in three minutes more we are fast to the\nwharf in a little gap between two bigger vessels.\n\nAnd now we were in Boston. Whoever has been down to the end of Long\nWharf, and walked through Quincy Market, has seen Boston.\n\nBoston, New York, Philadelphia, Charleston, New Orleans, and the rest,\nare the names of wharves projecting into the sea (surrounded by the\nshops and dwellings of the merchants), good places to take in and to\ndischarge a cargo (to land the products of other climes and load the\nexports of our own). I see a great many barrels and fig-drums,\u2014piles of\nwood for umbrella-sticks,\u2014blocks of granite and ice,\u2014great heaps of\ngoods, and the means of packing and conveying them,\u2014much wrapping-paper\nand twine,\u2014many crates and hogsheads and trucks,\u2014and that is Boston.\nThe more barrels, the more Boston. The museums and scientific societies\nand libraries are accidental. They gather around the sands to save\ncarting. The wharf-rats and customhouse officers, and broken-down\npoets, seeking a fortune amid the barrels. Their better or worse\nlyceums, and preachings, and doctorings, these, too, are accidental,\nand the malls of commons are always small potatoes. When I go to\nBoston, I naturally go straight through the city (taking the Market in\nmy way), down to the end of Long Wharf, and look off, for I have no\ncousins in the back alleys,\u2014and there I see a great many countrymen in\ntheir shirt-sleeves from Maine, and Pennsylvania, and all along shore\nand in shore, and some foreigners beside, loading and unloading and\nsteering their teams about, as at a country fair.\n\nWhen we reached Boston that October, I had a gill of Provincetown sand\nin my shoes, and at Concord there was still enough left to sand my\npages for many a day; and I seemed to hear the sea roar, as if I lived\nin a shell, for a week afterward.\n\nThe places which I have described may seem strange and remote to my\ntownsmen,\u2014indeed, from Boston to Provincetown is twice as far as from\nEngland to France; yet step into the cars, and in six hours you may\nstand on those four planks, and see the Cape which Gosnold is said to\nhave discovered, and which I have so poorly described. If you had\nstarted when I first advised you, you might have seen our tracks in the\nsand, still fresh, and reaching all the way from the Nauset Lights to\nRace Point, some thirty miles,\u2014for at every step we made an impression\non the Cape, though we were not aware of it, and though our account may\nhave made no impression on your minds. But what is our account? In it\nthere is no roar, no beach-birds, no tow-cloth.\n\nWe often love to think now of the life of men on beaches,\u2014at least in\nmidsummer, when the weather is serene; their sunny lives on the sand,\namid the beach-grass and the bayberries, their companion a cow, their\nwealth a jag of driftwood or a few beach-plums, and their music the\nsurf and the peep of the beach-bird.\n\nWe went to see the Ocean, and that is probably the best place of all\nour coast to go to. If you go by water, you may experience what it is\nto leave and to approach these shores; you may see the Stormy Petrel by\nthe way, \u03b8\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03c3\u03c3\u03bf\u03b4\u03c1\u03cc\u03bc\u03b1, running over the sea, and if the weather is but\na little thick, may lose sight of the land in mid-passage. I do not\nknow where there is another beach in the Atlantic States, attached to\nthe mainland, so long, and at the same time so straight, and completely\nuninterrupted by creeks or coves or fresh-water rivers or marshes; for\nthough there may be clear places on the map, they would probably be\nfound by the foot traveller to be intersected by creeks and marshes;\ncertainly there is none where there is a double way, such as I have\ndescribed, a beach and a bank, which at the same time shows you the\nland and the sea, and part of the time two seas. The Great South Beach\nof Long Island, which I have since visited, is longer still without an\ninlet, but it is literally a mere sand-bar, exposed, several miles from\nthe Island, and not the edge of a continent wasting before the assaults\nof the Ocean. Though wild and desolate, as it wants the bold bank, it\npossesses but half the grandeur of Cape Cod in my eyes, nor is the\nimagination contented with its southern aspect. The only other beaches\nof great length on our Atlantic coast, which I have heard sailors speak\nof, are those of Barnegat on the Jersey shore, and Currituck between\nVirginia and North Carolina; but these, like the last, are low and\nnarrow sandbars, lying off the coast, and separated from the mainland\nby lagoons. Besides, as you go farther south, the tides are feebler,\nand cease to add variety and grandeur to the shore. On the Pacific side\nof our country also no doubt there is good walking to be found; a\nrecent writer and dweller there tells us that \u201cthe coast from Cape\nDisappointment (or the Columbia River) to Cape Flattery (at the Strait\nof Juan de Fuca) is nearly north and south, and can be travelled almost\nits entire length on a beautiful sand-beach,\u201d with the exception of two\nbays, four or five rivers, and a few points jutting into the sea. The\ncommon shell-fish found there seem to be often of corresponding types,\nif not identical species, with those of Cape Cod. The beach which I\nhave described, however, is not hard enough for carriages, but must be\nexplored on foot. When one carriage has passed along, a following one\nsinks deeper still in its rut. It has at present no name any more than\nfame. That portion south of Nauset Harbor is commonly called Chatham\nBeach. The part in Eastham is called Nauset Beach, and off Wellfleet\nand Truro the Back-side, or sometimes, perhaps, Cape Cod Beach. I think\nthat part which extends without interruption from Nauset Harbor to Race\nPoint should be called Cape Cod Beach, and do so speak of it.\n\nOne of the most attractive points for visitors is in the northeast part\nof Wellfleet, where accommodations (I mean for men and women of\ntolerable health and habits) could probably be had within half a mile\nof the sea-shore. It best combines the country and the seaside. Though\nthe Ocean is out of sight, its faintest murmur is audible, and you have\nonly to climb a hill to find yourself on its brink. It is but a step\nfrom the glassy surface of the Herring Ponds to the big Atlantic Pond\nwhere the waves never cease to break. Or perhaps the Highland Light in\nTruro may compete with this locality, for there, there is a more\nuninterrupted view of the Ocean and the Bay, and in the summer there is\nalways some air stirring on the edge of the bank there, so that the\ninhabitants know not what hot weather is. As for the view, the keeper\nof the light, with one or more of his family, walks out to the edge of\nthe bank after every meal to look off, just as if they had not lived\nthere all their days. In short, it will wear well. And what picture\nwill you substitute for that, upon your walls? But ladies cannot get\ndown the bank there at present without the aid of a block and tackle.\n\nMost persons visit the sea-side in warm weather, when fogs are\nfrequent, and the atmosphere is wont to be thick, and the charm of the\nsea is to some extent lost. But I suspect that the fall is the best\nseason, for then the atmosphere is more transparent, and it is a\ngreater pleasure to look out over the sea. The clear and bracing air,\nand the storms of autumn and winter even, are necessary in order that\nwe may get the impression which the sea is calculated to make. In\nOctober, when the weather is not intolerably cold, and the landscape\nwears its autumnal tints, such as, methinks, only a Cape Cod landscape\never wears, especially if you have a storm during your stay,\u2014that I am\nconvinced is the best time to visit this shore. In autumn, even in\nAugust, the thoughtful days begin, and we can walk anywhere with\nprofit. Beside, an outward cold and dreariness, which make it necessary\nto seek shelter at night, lend a spirit of adventure to a walk.\n\nThe time must come when this coast will be a place of resort for those\nNew-Englanders who really wish to visit the sea-side. At present it is\nwholly unknown to the fashionable world, and probably it will never be\nagreeable to them. If it is merely a ten-pin alley, or a circular\nrailway, or an ocean of mint-julep, that the visitor is in search\nof,\u2014if he thinks more of the wine than the brine, as I suspect some do\nat Newport,\u2014I trust that for a long time he will be disappointed here.\nBut this shore will never be more attractive than it is now. Such\nbeaches as are fashionable are here made and unmade in a day, I may\nalmost say, by the sea shifting its sands. Lynn and Nantasket! this\nbare and bended arm it is that makes the bay in which they lie so\nsnugly. What are springs and waterfalls? Here is the spring of springs,\nthe waterfall of waterfalls. A storm in the fall or winter is the time\nto visit it; a light-house or a fisherman\u2019s hut the true hotel. A man\nmay stand there and put all America behind him.\n\n [1] It is remarkable that the first, if not the only, part of New\n England which Cartier saw was Vermont (he also saw the mountains of\n New York), from Montreal Mountain, in 1535, sixty-seven years before\n Gosnold saw Cape Cod. _If seeing is discovering_,\u2014and that is _all_\n that it is proved that Cabot knew of the coast of the United\n States,\u2014then Cartier (to omit Verrazani and Gomez) was the discoverer\n of New England rather than Gosnold, who is commonly so styled.\n\n\n [2] \u201cSavage Rock,\u201d which some have supposed to be, from the name, the\n _Salvages_, a ledge about two miles off Rockland, Cape Ann, was\n probably the _Nubble_, a large, high rock near the shore, on the east\n side of York Harbor, Maine. The first land made by Gosnold is presumed\n by experienced navigators to be Cape Elizabeth, on the same coast.\n (See Babson\u2019s History of Gloucester, Massachusetts.)\n\n\nThe University Press, Cambridge, U. S. A.","title":"Cape Cod","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":78313}