University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

—Izaak Walton.

Plautus—Rudens, Act I., Sce. I.

It is meet, and commendable in a veracious traveller, upon
his arrival in an undiscovered country, to note, and register
the appointments of his hostelry. Record we, therefore, circumspectly,
an inventory of our new tenement and comfortable
head-quarters. Oh, for a pen worthy of the grave, and
dangerous obligation! Hope, not, proud dweller in houses
with chimneys, for a vision of gorgeous brick and mortar, nor
the architectural glories of granite magnificence, nor the adornments
of pompous garniture. Ask not for needless chairs,
nor seek superfluous tables; no, nor the vanities of boarded
floorings. Simplicity and republican thrift constructed and
apparelled the edifice. Babylon nursed the young saplings,
which, lopped from their sprouty trunks, and into the sand-hills
driven deep, incline their leafless tops bending to meet

each other at the culmen, where, through the ragged crater,
the beaten smoke struggles against the impetuous gales,
mounting from the central fire built beneath, upon the primeval
hearth of circling anchor-stones. Captain Dodd threshed the
oats out of the straw, which, now intertwined and closely
thatched between the unpeeled rafters, repels the whistling
storm with its thick envelopment. No unshut doors creak on
their unoiled hinges, letting in the cold air; nor windows
tempt the passing juvenal to throw stones. The spumal piscators
have ingress by a hole cut through the straw near the
ground, bending down upon their knees. The mansion glories
in two avenues of entrance. Eurus breathes upon the
one; sleepy Phœbus, going to bed, paints with doubtful purple
the other;—inlets beloved by baymen, safe avenues of
escape from the rough assaults of the puffy servants of æolus,
who are always cruising about the beach. Hail! hospitable
holes! A piece of stranded ship-timber furnishes a safe
street-door, secured by a laid up stone; the wind is shut out,
and the tired family sleep. “Exegi monumentum”[2] —I have
built the hut.

Contemplate, now, the household ornature. Enter, welcome
friend. Stoop, stoop—“Bend, stubborn knees.”[3] And
now recline upon this couch of wholesome straw, which carpets
the whole area of the domicil. The dying coals shed
but uncertain light upon the congregated groups of sleepers,
and dimly give to sight the motley equipage of the crew.
There they lie, “each in his narrow cell,”[4] or rather, each in
his little stramineous dormitory, which, once appropriated, is
sacred to the bones of its peculiar tenant. There sleeps, and
snores the worn-out bayman; “—structis cantat avenis.”[5]

There, the safe proprietor deposits his pea-coat, private liquor,
and unusual blanket; confident in the honor of his comrades,
unless the weather should happen to be savage, when, doubtless,
he will watch diligently. No idle space remains, save
the brief circle around the fire place, which serves, in turn,
for parlor, dining-room, and kitchen. The tapestry hangings
are various, and picturesque. The subject of the illustration
is the blessed beauty of utility. Up against the sapling
uprights are fastened shelves, unconscious of the plane;
and rust-browned hooks, and nails, disclose their alternate
heads and points, where lie, or are suspended, or are thrust
into the straw, the luxuries and superfluities of the squad:—
“`Αρχιτ υοιδας”—
to wit; a jug of molasses; item, a black-edged, broken, pack
of playing cards; item, a love-feast hymn-book; item, six
inches by two of looking-glass—quicksilver half off; item, a
bunch of mackerel; item, an extra pair of party-colored pantaloons,
nineteen times mended in the seat; item, something
to take, by way of medicine, for thirsty members of the Temperance
society; item, the first two leaves of “the Swearer's
Prayer”—tract—rest used up; item, the American Songster;
item,—but the inventory will “stretch out to the crack of
doom;”—most imaginative reader, complete the catalogue
with guns, eel-spears, clam-rakes, powder-horns, and bread-baskets,
with their appurtenances, according to thy most fastidious
desires. There are all of these, and more, for thee to
choose from. Having resolved the difficulties of the selection,
wend back with me, a short way, to our landing place, and
know a new friend with whom we ought to have tarried on
our way, and held a brief discourse.

We have crossed the bay, skirting by the Fire Islands, leaving
them a few hundred yards behind us to the north, and
have rested our prow upon the classical sands of Raccoon
Beach.

Upon our arrival here, we put in alongside of the new wharf
of the eximious Mr. Smith, a person of no little importance,
being a man under authority, having a wife over him, a keeper
of their majesties', the people's, lighthouse, adjoining his own
tenement, duly appointed and commissioned, a lawful voter, a
licensed vender of “spurrets and things accorden,” and the
only householder upon the island ridge. Mr. Smith had the
happiness, in early life, of being blest with parents of taste, in
matters of nomenclature, singularly coincident with that of my
own. His christian name was Jeremiah, too; and—perhaps,
because his surname was unusual, and difficult to pronounce—
his friends and visitors always gave him their greeting, by
the gentle and euphonious appellation of “Jerry.”

I always thought it was kind in Jerry to take out that license;
first upon his own account, because it brought him
company that could give him the news from the upland, now
and then, and the correct time of day, and a little odd change
occasionally; and secondly, upon the account of the aforesaid
company, because they could always rely upon getting something
to comfort the inner man, good, when they landed from
their long adventure across the bay. And in good sooth, these
are not few, nor melancholy visitors, who make their pilgrimages
to this romantic region. Pilgrimages? Aye; for here
is a shrine most generous and propitious, to the bayman, the
sportsman, the bather, and the beach-flolicker. How often
have those dark waters been sprinkled, as with rain, with the

spent lead of the skulking shooter, and the clear air rent with
the oft echoed crack of his heated fowlingpiece! How often
has that winding beach drank the glad voice of the merry
maiden of Queens, as she welcomed to her bosom the mounting
swell of the ravenous ocean tide! How have rung the
blithe laugh, the half-stifled scream, the shriek, the prayer, the
confident voice, mingling and confused, with the splashing
plunge, and the breaking billows! Oh, days gone by! gone
by, alas! for ever! Shall I never wind my arm again around
the gentle waist of—Hold, hold, rash hand! Be comforted,
sorrowful heart! It is nothing, most discerning reader,—it is
nothing.—Let us hurry on with our legitimate raptures.

Then, again, old Neptune's sea-steeds never snuffed the
land-breeze from a more delicately pebbled strand; nor did
goddess nature ever paint a sheet of scenery more glorious,
than that which lies beneath, and above, and around you, when
gazing, in the quiet solitude of your eyry, in a summer's twilight,
from the topmost casement of that light-house. There,
from the south, comes the many-voiced ocean, sporting like a
mighty musician, running his wild notes upon the hollow-sounding
shore. Majestically, he lifts upon his billows, his
fleets of gallant ships, hailing the prayed-for land, and heaves
them aloft toward Heaven, as if vaunting the richness and
multitude of the gems that glow upon his restless bosom.
Near by, in the west, he has burst through, in some night of
rage, his ancient barrier, and rolls an impetuous current along
the Fire Island inlet. Beyond, lies the dismembered remainder
of the beach; and beach, and marsh, and breaker, and
blue shore, succeed, in turn, as far as eye can reach. Turn
to the north, and the quiet bay presents to you the contrast of
its transparent mirror. Stilly, and gently, it kisses the margin
of its beautiful islets, that glisten with green meadows, and

wave with bending rushes, and are vocal with the music of
the dowitcher and plover. The wood-crowned hills of Matowacs
bound your vision. Matowacs! Garden of Columbia!
Paradise of sportsmen! Mother and nourisher of a noble race
of hardy freemen!

We have not time for any more glorification at present.
As the happy laureat of Blackhawk would say, “sufficient for
the day is the gammon thereof.” The reader understands
now, sufficiently, all the necessary topography. It may be
well, however, to add that Raynor Rock's fishing-hut was
about two hundred yards from our landing place, and an equal
distance from Jerry's domicil and the light-house. After securing
our boat, we unloaded her, and carried our oars, and
guns, and traps, to Jerry's, and took lodgings. This was for
form sake merely, knowing, as we did, that the most of our
time would be spent in the bay, or in Raynor's hut. Jerry
was not in a very amiable mood when we arrived, and we had
none of us, any especial commendation to tarry long, except,
perhaps, Oliver, who came rather reluctantly out of the kitchen,
where we found him, as usual, helping the help. However,
we soon got away, and started for Raynor's, bearing the always
easy burden of a jug of special stuff, which we knew
would not come amiss of a rainy night. A hop, a skip, and a
jump, a few times repeated, brought us to the welcome which
has already been recorded.

“Lay on more wood. Zoph, get a pail of water. What's
the news in York? When did you come down? Left your
things at Jerry's? Had supper? A'nt ye hungry? What'll
ye drink? Boys, get that ere bass—stir, stir. Sit down,
Oliver; sit down on this pea-jacket.”

We were soon comfortable around a blazing fire, and rattling
off the usual small-talk of old acquaintances. As a matter

of course, supper was provided after the manner of fishermen.
As there was some simplicity and labor-saving about
this preparation, I will, in all benevolence, impart to the superintendents
of pot-hooks and trammels, and epicures in general,
the details thereof.

First, the fire being recalled to life upon the hearth of circling
stones, a temporary crane was formed by uniting above
the curling flame, the heads of three opposite crooked sticks,
whose sharpened ends were secured in the ground. Upon
this machine was hung the iron pot; it was the only one, and
so far as dimensions were concerned, it was perfectly qualified
for all its various vocations. This being filled from Jerry's
well, a noble bass, a captive of the last tide, was introduced
into the element. The lid was put on, the flame went
up, and in a little time a low bubbling grumbling noise was
heard, that Oliver said made him feel as though several families
had lately moved out of his ventricular tenements. The
bustling Zoph blew the kindling coals, with his lungs for a
bellows, bending down until his lips came in contact with the
very ashes.

“Studet maxime, ut olla ferveat, ut accuretur prandium,” said
I to Ned, quoting some old schoolboy slang,—I don't know
where I got it,—in an under tone, pointing to Zoph.

“No, I thank you,” replied Zoph, turning half round to me,
having caught the sound of the last word, and interpreting it
into an invitation—“I daresn't drink brandy on account o'
sprainen my foot.”

I accepted the offered credit without the slightest compunction
of conscience. Ned taught me that virtue. “Accipio”
is a fond, familiar word. It is a favorite maxim with Ned,
that a man so seldom gets an honest acknowledgment for what
he does do, that it is only a fair recompense to pick up a little

reputation, when he can, for what he does not do.—But the
fish.—Well, fire and water did their duty, and the bass was
stretched upon a pewter platter, ready for the knife, and set
down in the midst of the company.

“Cooked, glorified and made beautiful, by the irresistible
genius of hickory wood,” cried Ned, making a theatrical
flourish, and clapping a quarter of a pound of his subject-matter
into his mouth, in the place of the last word that went out.

A general distribution of platters having taken place, and
two or three hunks of rye-bread being tumbled upon the straw,
with butter, and pepper, and salt according, our jack-knives
were soon in requisition, every man cutting and eating “on
his own hook,” and, in a very short time, a very audible sound
of mastication went around the fireplace, and up even into the
secret places of the roof. The fish was good, glorious; it was
so lately out the water. “Piscis nequam, nisi recens.”[7] That
old saw is as true now, as it was in the time of the oyster-loving
poet who created it. By-the-by, I take credit here for
being the first icthyologist that has ever used that sentiment
in its literal sense. Its author, and all his quoters, pedagogues
and all, have, I believe, invariably applied it in its metaphorical
capacity. It is set down in some one of my juvenile study
books, as being the Latin for “a new broom sweeps clean.”
There is not the slightest doubt on my mind, that the memory
of the quaint thought was most diligently flogged into me at
school, and that, for its present apt illustration of my sentiments
concerning fish, my sympathetic reader is indebted to
the vigor and good will of the right hand of some one, or more,
of those worthy people, whose delightful task it was, in former
times, to teach my young ideas how to shoot, and to thresh

me. A good deal of Latin was instilled into me in that way,
but as it has leaked out principally, I generally try to make
myself intelligible in English. Ned and I are both fond of it,
though, and we talk our secrets in it a good deal; but what
we manufacture, does not always rise above the dignity of
hog-latin. Uncle Ben likes to hear us “jaw” in it, as he
terms it; he says he thinks “it's got such a sanction to it.”
Touching fish, Searson has a doublet, which that much-neglected,
and truly American poet, no doubt, thought good:—

The idea is simple, and the versification innocent; but I
question the morality of the sentiment. It is most distinctly
Epicurean.—But, supper.

“You needn't wash that ere pot,” said one of the crew,
whom I did not recognise, to Zoph, as he emptied the fish-water
out doors. “You know what was into it last.”

“It's as good as new,” replied Zoph, returning. “Hand
us that ere jug.”

The vessel referred to being replenished, now, jack-of-all-trades-like,
commenced the performance of the functions of a
tea-kettle, or rather of a chocolate cauldron. After pouring in
about a quart of molasses, the officiating cook opened his jack-knife,
and, bending over the pot, began to cut and scrape upon
a dusky-colored oblong cake, and he stuck to his task, until
the whole block had fallen in dust into the water. Then, the
mixture being stirred with the end of a broken eel-spear, the
process of blowing was repeated. As to what was to come

out of this composition, I felt seriously uncertain. However,
the fire crackled, and we cracked our jokes, and the pot boiled
over, and then they took it off, and set it down again by the
hearth. They called it chocolate. As good democrats, they
had a perfect right to do so, and I impeach not the propriety
of the baptism. We drew ourselves around it upon our
haunches, and fixed our eyes upon the smoking liquid. While
I was deliberating how we should ever get the stuff to our
lips, one of the boys handed us each a pine stick, about a
yard long, to one end of which was fastened a shell of that capacious
clam, commonly known and described as the skimmaug.

For the satisfaction of the curious in the philosophy of language
I will here remark, that of the orthography and etymology
of this testaceous name, I must confess myself to be
most lamentably unadvised. I am inclined to believe, however,
that the word is aboriginal, and that skimmaugs were the
shell-fish which the Marsapeag Indians used to send, in olden
times,—before they were civilized out of their wigwams and
hunting-grounds, and before wine and whist had usurped the
dominion of water and grouse in the region of Lif Snedecor
and Ronconcommer Pond,—by way of tribute to their more
powerful red brethren of the continent. I am confirmed in
this opinion, by one of the papers of that highly valuable and
extensively accessible institution, the New-York Historical
Society, in which is communicated the interesting fact, that
the Delaware tribe, or Lenni Lenapes, who claimed Matowacs
as a colony, were an uncommonly piscivorous nation. I spoke
to Uncle Ben upon the subject once, and asked his opinion.
He told me that he “couldn't say for sarten, whether it was
Ingen or Dutch, but he reckoned he'd heerd his grandfather
say that the savages was high for fish,” and the old man added,

without intending to pun, “Yes, yes, them Delawares was
amazen clamorous people.”[9]

Upon the introduction of these wands, I was at a loss to
imagine to what desperate purpose they were to be applied,
and apprehended a musical festival, or an Indian war-dance.
But the active hands, and thirsty throats of my companions,
soon enlightened my urban ignorance. These were spoons,
veritable tea-spoons—spoons wherewith to sip our chocolate.
And rapidly were they thrust into that steaming pot, ladling
up and bringing back the dripping nectar of its contents. This
was an interesting spectacle to contemplate. In sooth, it was
expressly ante-diluvian. Forcibly was I reminded of that ancient
and sententious maxim, “fingers was made before forks;”
and of that other pleasant household phrase, “make a long
arm and help yourself.”

“Can't you make chocolate without having it so devilish
hot, boys?”

“The fire was made of split wood, sir; that's the reason.”

The explanation was perfectly satisfactory. I soon became
expert in the handling of my instrument, and the constantly
going and returning vehicles soon exhausted the receiver.
Supper was done. So is this instructive chapter.