 | THE SEA LIONS. The sea lions, or, The lost sealers |  |
1. THE SEA LIONS.
1. CHAPTER I.
_____“When that's gone,
He shall drink naught but brine.”
Tempest.
While there is less of that high polish in America that
is obtained by long intercourse with the great world, than
is to be found in nearly every European country, there is
much less positive rusticity also. There, the extremes of
society are widely separated, repelling rather than attracting
each other; while among ourselves, the tendency is to
gravitate towards a common centre. Thus it is, that all
things in America become subject to a mean law that is
productive of a mediocrity which is probably much above
the average of that of most nations; possibly of all, England
excepted; but which is only a mediocrity, after all.
In this way, excellence in nothing is justly appreciated,
nor is it often recognised; and the suffrages of the nation
are pretty uniformly bestowed on qualities of a secondary
class. Numbers have sway, and it is as impossible to resist
them in deciding on merit, as it is to deny their power in
the ballot-boxes; time alone, with its great curative influence,
supplying the remedy that is to restore the public
mind to a healthful state, and give equally to the pretender
and to him who is worthy of renown, his proper place in
the pages of history.
The activity of American life, the rapidity and cheapness
of intercourse, and the migratory habits both have
induced, leave little of rusticity and local character in any
acute observer may detect, do certainly exist between the
eastern and the western man, between the northerner and
the southerner, the Yankee and middle states' man; the
Bostonian, Manhattanese and Philadelphian; the Tuckahoe
and the Cracker; the Buckeye or Wolverine, and the
Jersey Blue. Nevertheless, the world cannot probably
produce another instance of a people who are derived from
so many different races, and who occupy so large an extent
of country, who are so homogeneous in appearance, characters
and opinions. There is no question that the institutions
have had a material influence in producing this
uniformity, while they have unquestionably lowered the
standard to which opinion is submitted, by referring the
decisions to the many, instead of making the appeal to the
few, as is elsewhere done. Still, the direction is onward,
and though it may take time to carve on the social column
of America that graceful and ornamental capital which it
forms the just boast of Europe to possess, when the task
shall be achieved, the work will stand on a báse so broad
as to secure its upright attitude for ages.
Notwithstanding the general character of identity and
homogenity that so strongly marks the picture of American
society, exceptions are to be met with, in particular districts,
that are not only distinct and incontrovertible, but
which are so peculiar as to be worthy of more than a passing
remark in our delineations of national customs. Our
present purpose leads us into one of these secluded districts,
and it may be well to commence the narrative of
certain deeply interesting incidents that it is our intention
to attempt to portray, by first referring to the place and
people where and from whom the principal actors in our
legend had their origin.
Every one at all familiar with the map of America knows
the position and general form of the two islands that shelter
the well-known harbour of the great emporium of the commerce
of the country. These islands obtained their names
from the Dutch, who called them Nassau and Staten; but
the English, with little respect for the ancient house whence
the first of these appellations is derived, and consulting
only the homely taste which leads them to a practical rather
virtually dropped the name of Nassau, altogether substituting
that of Long Island in its stead.
Long Island, or the island of Nassau, extends from the
mouth of the Hudson to the eastern line of Connecticut;
forming a sort of sea-wall to protect the whole coast of the
latter little territory against the waves of the broad Atlantic.
Three of the oldest New York counties, as their names
would imply, Kings, Queens, and Suffolk, are on this
island. Kings was originally peopled by the Dutch, and
still possesses as many names derived from Holland as
from England, if its towns, which are of recent origin, be
taken from the account. Queens is more of a mixture,
having been early invaded and occupied by adventurers
from the other side of the Sound; but Suffolk, which contains
nearly, if not quite, two-thirds of the surface of the
whole island, is and ever has been in possession of a people
derived originally from the puritans of New England. Of
these three counties, Kings is much the smallest, though
next to New York itself, the most populous county in the
state; a circumstance that is owing to the fact that two
suburban offsets of the great emporium, Brooklyn and Williamsburg,
happen to stand, within its limits, on the waters
of what is improperly called the East River; an arm of the
sea that has obtained this appellation, in contradistinction
to the Hudson, which, as all Manhattanese well know, is
as often called the North River, as by its proper name. In
consequence of these two towns, or suburbs of New York,
one of which contains nearly a hundred thousand souls,
while the other must be drawing on towards twenty thousand,
Kings county has lost all it ever had of peculiar, or
local character. The same is true of Queens, though in a
diminished degree; but Suffolk remains Suffolk still, and
it is with Suffolk alone that our present legend requires us
to deal. Of Suffolk, then, we purpose to say a few words
by way of preparatory explanation.
Although it has actually more sea-coast than all the rest
of New York united, Suffolk has but one sea-port that is
ever mentioned beyond the limits of the county itself. Nor
is this port one of general commerce, its shipping being
principally employed in the hardy and manly occupation
or fourth port in the country, and maintains something like
that rank in importance. A whaling haven is nothing without
a whaling community. Without the last, it is almost
hopeless to look for success. New York can, and has often
fitted whalers for sea, having sought officers in the regular
whaling ports; but it has been seldom that the enterprises
have been rewarded with such returns as to induce a second
voyage by the same parties.
It is as indispensable that a whaler should possess a certain
esprit de corps, as that a regiment, or a ship of war,
should be animated by its proper spirit. In the whaling
communities, this spirit exists to an extent, and in a degree
that is wonderful, when one remembers the great expansion
of this particular branch of trade within the last
five-and-twenty years. It may be a little lessened of late,
but at the time of which we are writing, or about the year
1820, there was scarcely an individual who followed this
particular calling out of the port of Sag Harbour, whose
general standing on board ship was not as well known to
all the women and girls of the place, as it was to his shipmates.
Success in taking the whale was a thing that made
itself felt in every fibre of the prosperity of the town; and
it was just as natural that the single-minded population of
that part of Suffolk should regard the bold and skilful harpooner,
or lancer, with favour, as it is for the belle at a
watering-place to bestow her smiles on one of the young
heroes of Contreras or Churubusco. His peculiar merit,
whether with the oar, lance, or harpoon, is bruited about,
as well as the number of whales he may have succeeded in
“making fast to,” or those which he caused to “spout
blood.” It is true, that the great extension of the trade
within the last twenty years, by drawing so many from a
distance into its pursuits, has in a degree lessened this
local interest and local knowledge of character; but at the
time of which we are about to write, both were at their
height, and Nantucket itself had not more of this “intelligence
office” propensity, or more of the true whaling esprit
de corps, than were to be found in the district of country
that surrounded Sag Harbour.
Long Island forks at its eastern end, and may be said to
shortest of the two legs thus formed, goes by the name of
Oyster Pond Point; while the other, that stretches much
farther in the direction of Blok Island, is the well-known
cape called Montauk. Within the fork lies Shelter Island,
so named from the snug berth it occupies. Between Shelter
Island and the longest or southern prong of the fork, are
the waters which compose the haven of Sag Harbour, an
estuary of some extent; while a narrow but deep arm of
the sea separates this island from the northern prong, that
terminates at Oyster Pond.
The name of Oyster Pond Point was formerly applied to a
long, low, fertile and pleasant reach of land, that extended
several miles from the point itself, westward, towards the
spot where the two prongs of the fork united. It was not
easy, during the first quarter of the present century, to find
a more secluded spot on the whole island, than Oyster
Pond. Recent enterprises have since converted it into the
terminus of a railroad; and Green Port, once called Sterling,
is a name well known to travellers between New
York and Boston; but in the earlier part of the present
century it seemed just as likely that the Santa Casa of
Loretto should take a new flight and descend on the point,
as that the improvement that has actually been made should
in truth occur at that out-of-the-way place. It required,
indeed, the keen eye of a railroad projector to bring this
spot in connection with anything; nor could it be done
without having recourse to the water by which it is almost
surrounded. Using the last, it is true, means have been
found to place it in a line between two of the great marts
of the country, and thus to put an end to aH its seclusion,
its simplicity, its peculiarities, and we had almost said, its
happiness.
It is to us ever a painful sight to see the rustic virtues
rudely thrown aside by the intrusion of what are termed
improvements. A railroad is certainly a capital invention
for the traveller, but it may be questioned if it is of any
other benefit than that of pecuniary convenience to the
places through which it passes. How many delightful
hamlets, pleasant villages, and even tranquil county towns,
are losing their primitive characters for simplicity and contentment,
after them a sort of bastard elegance, a pretension that is
destructive of peace of mind, and an uneasy desire in all
who dwell by the way-side, to pry into the mysteries of the
whole length and breadth of the region it traverses!
We are writing of the year of our Lord one thousand
eight hundred and nineteen. In that day, Oyster Pond
was, in one of the best acceptations of the word, a rural
district. It is true that its inhabitants were accustomed
to the water, and to the sight of vessels, from the two-decker
to the little shabby-looking craft that brought ashes
from town, to meliorate the sandy lands of Suffolk. Only
five years before, an English squadron had lain in Gardiner's
Bay, here pronounced `Gar'ner's,' watching the Race,
or eastern outlet of the Sound, with a view to cut off the
trade and annoy their enemy. That game is up, for ever.
No hostile squadron, English, French, Dutch, or all united,
will ever again blockade an American port for any serious
length of time, the young Hercules passing too rapidly
from the gristle into the bone, any longer to suffer antics
of this nature to be played in front of his cradle. But
such was not his condition in the war of 1812, and the
good people of Oyster Pond had become familiar with
the checkered sides of two-deck ships, and the venerable
and beautiful ensign of Old England, as it floated above
them.
Nor was it only by these distant views, and by means
of hostilities, that the good folk on Oyster Pond were acquainted
with vessels. New York is necessary to all on
the coast, both as a market and as a place to procure supplies;
and every creek, or inlet, or basin, of any sort,
within a hundred leagues of it, is sure to possess one or
more craft that ply between the favourite haven and the
particular spot in question. Thus was it with Oyster Pond.
There is scarce a better harbour on the whole American
coast, than that which the narrow arm of the sea that divides
the Point from Shelter Island presents; and even in
the simple times of which we are writing, Sterling had its
two or three coasters, such as they were. But the true
maritime character of Oyster Pond, as well as that of all
Suffolk, was derived from the whalers, and its proper nucleus
youths of the whole region resorted for employment, and
to advance their fortunes, and generally with such success
as is apt to attend enterprise, industry and daring, when
exercised with energy in a pursuit of moderate gains.
None became rich, in the strict signification of the term,
though a few got to be in reasonably affluent circumstances;
many were placed altogether at their case, and more were
made humbly comfortable. A farm in America is well
enough for the foundation of family support, but it rarely
suffices for all the growing wants of these days of indulgence,
and of a desire to enjoy so much of that which was
formerly left to the undisputed possession of the unquestionably
rich. A farm, with a few hundreds per annum,
derived from other sources, makes a good base of comfort;
and if the hundreds are converted into thousands, your
farmer, or agriculturalist, becomes a man not only at his
case, but a proprietor of some importance. The farms on
Oyster Pond were neither very extensive, nor had they
owners of large incomes to support them; on the contrary,
most of them were made to support their owners; a thing
that is possible, even in America, with industry, frugality
and judgment. In order, however, that the names of places
we may have occasion to use shall be understood, it may
be well to be a little more particular in our preliminary
explanations.
The reader knows that we are now writing of Suffolk
County, Long Island, New York. He also knows that our
opening scene is to be on the shorter, or most northern of
the two prongs of that fork, which divides the eastern end
of this island, giving it what are properly two capes. The
smallest territorial division that is known to the laws of
New York, in rural districts, is the `township,' as it is
called. These townships are usually larger than the English
parish, corresponding more properly with the French
canton. They vary, however, greatly in size, some containing
as much as a hundred square miles, which is the
largest size, while others do not contain more than a tenth
of that surface.
The township in which the northern prong, or point of
Long Island, lies, is named Southold, and includes not
the common names of Oyster Pond, Sterling, &c., but
several islands, also, which stretch off in the Sound, as
well as a broader piece of territory, near Riverhead. Oyster
Pond, which is the portion of the township that lies on the
`point,' is, or was, for we write of a remote period in the
galloping history of the state, only a part of Southold, and
probably was not then a name known in the laws, at all.
We have a wish, also, that this name should be pronounced
properly. It is not called Oyster Pond, as the
uninitiated would be very apt to get it, but Oyster Pùnd,
the last word having a sound similar to that of the cockney's
`pound,' in his “two pùnd two.” This discrepancy
between the spelling and the pronunciation of proper names
is agreeable to us, for it shows that a people are not put in
leading strings by pedagogues, and that they make use of
their own, in their own way. We remember how great
was our satisfaction once, on entering Holmes' Hole, a
well-known bay in this very vicinity, in our youth, to hear
a boatman call the port, `Hum'ses Hull.' It is getting to
be so rare to meet with an American, below the higher
classes, who will consent to cast this species of veil before
his school-day acquisitions, that we acknowledge it gives
us pleasure to hear such good, homely, old-fashioned English
as “Gar'ner's Island,” “Hum'ses Hull,” and “Oyster
Pùnd.”
This plainness of speech was not the only proof of the
simplicity of former days that was to be found in Suffolk,
in the first quarter of the century. The eastern end of
Long Island lies so much out of the track of the rest of the
world, that even the new railroad cannot make much impression
on its inhabitants, who get their pigs and poultry,
butter and eggs, a little earlier to market, than in the days
of the stage-wagons, it is true, but they fortunately, as yet,
bring little back except it be the dross that sets every thing
in motion, whether it be by rail, or through the sands, in
the former toilsome mode.
The season, at the precise moment when we desire to
take the reader with us to Oyster Pond, was in the delightful
month of September, when the earlier promises of
the year are fast maturing into performance. Although
county, being generally of a thin, light soil, and still covered
with a growth of small wood, it possesses, nevertheless,
spots of exceeding fertility. A considerable portion of the
northern prong of the fork has this latter character, and
Oyster Pond is a sort of garden compared with much of
the sterility that prevails around it. Plain, but respectable
dwellings, with numerous out-buildings, orchards and fruit-trees,
fences carefully preserved, a pains-taking tillage,
good roads, and here and there a “meeting-house,” gave
the fork an air of rural and moral beauty that, aided by the
water by which it was so nearly surrounded, contributed
greatly to relieve the monotony of so dead a level. There
were heights in view, on Shelter Island, and bluffs towards
Riverhead, which, if they would not attract much attention
in Switzerland, were by no means overlooked in Suffolk.
In a word, both the season and the place were charming,
though most of the flowers had already faded; and the apple,
and the pear, and the peach, were taking the places
of the inviting cherry. Fruit abounded, notwithstanding
the close vicinity of the district to salt water, the airs from
the sea being broken, or somewhat tempered, by the land
that lay to the southward.
We have spoken of the coasters that ply between the
emporium and all the creeks and bays of the Sound, as
well as of the numberless rivers that find an outlet for their
waters between Sandy Hook and Rockaway. Wharves
were constructed, at favourable points, inside the prong,
and occasionally a sloop was seen at them loading its truck,
or discharging its ashes or street manure, the latter being
a very common return cargo for a Long Island coaster.
At one wharf, however, now lay a vessel of a different
mould, and one which, though of no great size, was manifestly
intended to go outside. This was a schooner that
that had been recently launched, and which had advanced no
farther in its first equipment than to get in its two principal
spars, the rigging of which hung suspended over the
mast-heads, in readiness to be “set up” for the first time.
The day being Sunday, work was suspended, and this so
much the more, because the owner of the vessel was a certain
Deacon Pratt, who dwelt in a house within half a mile
several parcels of land in that neighbourhood, each of which
had its own buildings and conveniences, and was properly
enough dignified with the name of a farm. To be sure,
neither of these farms was very large, their acres united
amounting to but little more than two hundred; but, owing
to their condition, the native richness of the soil, and the
mode of turning them to account, they had made Deacon
Pratt a warm man, for Suffolk.
There are two great species of deacons; for we suppose
they must all be referred to the same genera. One species
belong to the priesthood, and become priests and bishops;
passing away, as priests and bishops are apt to do, with
more or less of the savour of godliness. The other species
are purely laymen, and are sui generis. They are, ex officio,
the most pious men in a neighbourhood, as they sometimes
are, as it would seem to us, ex officio, also the most
grasping and mercenary. As we are not in the secrets of
the sects to which these lay deacons belong, we shall not
presume to pronounce whether the individual is elevated
to the deaconate because he is prosperous, in a worldly
sense, or whether the prosperity is a consequence of the
deaconate; but, that the two usually go together is quite
certain; which being the cause, and which the effect, we
leave to wiser heads to determine.
Deacon Pratt was no exception to the rule. A tighter
fisted sinner did not exist in the county than this pious
soul, who certainly not only wore, but wore out the “form
of godliness,” while he was devoted, heart and hand, to the
daily increase of worldly gear. No one spoke disparagingly
of the deacon, notwithstanding. So completely had he got
to be interwoven with the church—`meeting,' we ought to
say—in that vicinity, that speaking disparagingly of him
would have appeared like assailing Christianity. It is true,
that many an unfortunate fellow-citizen in Suffolk had
been made to feel how close was the gripe of his hand, when
he found himself in its grasp; but there is a way of practising
the most ruthless extortion, that serves not only to
deceive the world, but which would really seem to mislead
the extortioner himself. Phrases take the place of deeds,
sentiments those of facts, and grimaces those of benevolent
often fancy that they are the victims of a severe dispensation
of Providence, when the truth would have shown that
they were simply robbed.
We do not mean, however, that Deacon Pratt was a
robber. He was merely a hard man in the management of
his affairs; never cheating, in a direct sense, but seldom
conceding a cent to generous impulses, or to the duties of
kind. He was a widower, and childless, circumstances
that rendered his love of gain still less pardonable; for
many a man who is indifferent to money on his own account,
will toil and save to lay up hoards for those who are
to come after him. The deacon had only a niece to inherit
his effects, unless he might choose to step beyond
that degree of consanguinity, and bestow a portion of his
means on cousins. The church—or, to be more literal,
the `meeting'—had an eye on his resources, however; and
it was whispered it had actually succeeded, by means
known to itself, in squeezing out of his tight grasp no less
a sum than one hundred dollars, as a donation to a certain
theological college. It was conjectured by some persons
that this was only the beginning of a religious liberality,
and that the excellent and godly-minded deacon would bestow
most of his property in a similar way, when the moment
should come that it could be no longer of any use to
himself. This opinion was much in favour with divers
devout females of the deacon's congregation, who had
daughters of their own, and who seldom failed to conclude
their observations on this interesting subject with some
such remark as, “Well, in that case, and it seems to me
that every thing points that way, Mary Pratt will get no
more than any other poor man's daughter.”
Little did Mary, the only child of Israel Pratt, an elder
brother of the deacon, think of all this. She had been left
an orphan in her tenth year, both parents dying within a
few months of each other, and had lived beneath her uncle's
roof for nearly ten more years, until use, and natural affection,
and the customs of the country, had made her feel
absolutely at home there. A less interested, or less selfish
being than Mary Pratt, never existed. In this respect she
was the very antipodes of her uncle, who often stealthily
which he was wont to term waste. But Mary kept
the even tenor of her way, seemingly not hearing such remarks,
and doing her duty quietly, and in all humility.
Suffolk was settled originally by emigrants from New
England, and the character of its people is, to this hour,
of modified New England habits and notions. Now, one
of the marked peculiarities of Connecticut is an indisposition
to part with anything without a quid pro quo. Those
little services, offerings, and conveniences that are elsewhere
parted with without a thought of remuneration, go
regularly upon the day-book, and often reappear on a `settlement,'
years after they have been forgotten by those who
received the favours. Even the man who keeps a carriage
will let it out for hire; and the manner in which money is
accepted, and even asked for by persons in easy circumstances,
and for things that would be gratuitous in the
Middle States, often causes disappointment, and sometimes
disgust. In this particular, Scottish and Swiss thrift, both
notorious, and the latter particularly so, are nearly equalled
by New England thrift; more especially in the close
estimate of the value of services rendered. So marked,
indeed, is this practice of looking for requitals, that even
the language is infected with it. Thus, should a person
pass a few months by invitation with a friend, his visit is
termed `boarding;' it being regarded as a matter of course
that he pays his way. It would scarcely be safe, indeed,
without the precaution of “passing receipts” on quitting,
for one to stay any time in a New England dwelling, unless
prepared to pay for his board. The free and frank habits
that prevail among relatives and friends elsewhere, are
nearly unknown there, every service having its price.
These customs are exceedingly repugnant to all who have
been educated in different notions; yet are they not without
their redeeming qualities, that might be pointed out to
advantage, though our limits will not permit us, at this
moment, so to do.
Little did Mary Pratt suspect the truth; but habit, or
covetousness, or some vague expectation that the girl might
yet contract a marriage that would enable him to claim all
his advances, had induced the deacon never to bestow
sort, that the money was not regularly charged against
her, in that nefarious work that he called his “day-book.”
As for the self-respect, and the feelings of caste, which
prevent a gentleman from practising any of these tradesmen's
tricks, the deacon knew nothing of them. He would
have set the man down as a fool who deferred to any notions
so unprofitable. With him, not only every man, but
every thing “had its price,” and usually it was a good
price, too. At the very moment when our tale opens there
stood charged in his book, against his unsuspecting and
affectionate niece, items in the way of schooling, dress,
board, and pocket-money, that amounted to the considerable
sum of one thousand dollars, money fairly expended.
The deacon was only intensely mean and avaricious, while
he was as honest as the day. Not a cent was overcharged;
and to own the truth, Mary was so great a favourite with
him, that most of his charges against her were rather of a
reasonable rate than otherwise.
| THE SEA LIONS. The sea lions, or, The lost sealers | |