 | Castle nowhere |  |
ST. CLAIR FLATS.
IN September, 1855, I first saw the St. Clair Flats.
Owing to Raymond's determination, we stopped
there.
“Why go on?” he asked. “Why cross another
long, rough lake, when here is all we want?”
“But no one ever stops here,” I said.
“So much the better; we shall have it all to ourselves.”
“But we must at least have a roof over our heads.”
“I presume we can find one.”
The captain of the steamer, however, knew of no
roof save that covering a little lighthouse set on
spiles, which the boat would pass within the half-hour;
we decided to get off there, and throw ourselves
upon the charity of the lighthouse-man. In
the mean time, we sat on the bow with Captain
Kidd, our four-legged companion, who had often
accompanied us on hunting expeditions, but never
before so far westward. It had been rough on
Lake Erie, — very rough. We, who had sailed the
tossed on the short, chopping waves of this
fresh-water sea; we, who alone of all the cabin-list
had eaten our four courses and dessert every day on
the ocean-steamer, found ourselves here reduced to
the depressing diet of a herring and pilot-bread.
Captain Kidd, too, had suffered dumbly; even now
he could not find comfort, but tried every plank in
the deck, one after the other, circling round and
round after his tail, dog-fashion, before lying down,
and no sooner down than up again for another melancholy
wandering about the deck, another choice of
planks, another circling, and another failure. We
were sailing across a small lake whose smooth waters
were like clear green oil; as we drew near the outlet,
the low, green shores curved inward and came together,
and the steamer entered a narrow, green river.
“Here we are,” said Raymond. “Now we can soon
land.”
“But there is n't any land,” I answered.
“What is that, then?” asked my near-sighted companion,
pointing toward what seemed a shore.
“Reeds.”
“And what do they run back to?”
“Nothing.”
“But there must be solid ground beyond?”
“Nothing but reeds, flags, lily-pads, grass, and water,
as far as I can see.”
“A marsh?”
“Yes, a marsh.”
The word “marsh” does not bring up a beautiful picture
to the mind, and yet the reality was as beautiful
as anything I have ever seen, — an enchanted land,
whose memory haunts me as an idea unwritten, a
melody unsung, a picture unpainted, haunts the artist,
and will not away. On each side and in front, as far
as the eye could reach, stretched the low green land
which was yet no land, intersected by hundreds of
channels, narrow and broad, whose waters were green
as their shores. In and out, now running into each
other for a moment, now setting off each for himself
again, these many channels flowed along with a rippling
current; zigzag as they were, they never seemed
to loiter, but, as if knowing just where they were
going and what they had to do, they found time to
take their own pleasant roundabout way, visiting the
secluded households of their friends the flags, who,
poor souls, must always stay at home. These currents
were as clear as crystal, and green as the water-grasses
that fringed their miniature shores. The bristling
reeds, like companies of free-lances, rode boldly out
here and there into the deeps, trying to conquer more
territory for the grasses, but the currents were hard to
conquer; they dismounted the free-lances, and flowed
over their submerged heads; they beat them down
with assaulting ripples; they broke their backs so effectually
along, limp and bedraggled. And, if by chance the
lances succeeded in stretching their forces across from
one little shore to another, then the unconquered currents
forced their way between the closely serried
ranks of the enemy, and flowed on as gayly as ever,
leaving the grasses sitting hopeless on the bank; for
they needed solid ground for their delicate feet, these
graceful ladies in green.
You might call it a marsh; but there was no mud,
no dark slimy water, no stagnant scum; there were
no rank yellow lilies, no gormandizing frogs, no swinish
mud-turtles. The clear waters of the channels ran
over golden sands, and hurtled among the stiff reeds
so swiftly that only in a bay, or where protected by a
crescent point, could the fair white lilies float in the
quiet their serene beauty requires. The flags, who
brandished their swords proudly, were martinets down
to their very heels, keeping themselves as clean under
the water as above, and harboring not a speck of mud
on their bright green uniforms. For inhabitants, there
were small fish roving about here and there in the
clear tide, keeping an eye out for the herons, who,
watery as to legs, but venerable and wise of aspect,
stood on promontories musing, apparently, on the secrets
of the ages.
The steamer's route was a constant curve; through
the larger channels of the archipelago she wound, as
headed toward all the points of the compass, finding
a channel where, to our uninitiated eyes, there was no
channel, doubling upon her own track, going broadside
foremost, floundering and backing, like a whale caught
in a shallow. Here, landlocked, she would choose
what seemed the narrowest channel of all, and dash
recklessly through, with the reeds almost brushing her
sides; there she crept gingerly along a broad expanse
of water, her paddle-wheels scarcely revolving, in the
excess of her caution. Saplings, with their heads of
foliage on, and branches adorned with fluttering rags,
served as finger-posts to show the way through the
watery defiles, and there were many other hieroglyphics
legible only to the pilot. “This time, surely, we
shall run ashore,” we thought again and again, as the
steamer glided, head-on, toward an islet; but at the
last there was always a quick turn into some unseen
strait opening like a secret passage in a castle-wall,
and we found ourselves in a new lakelet, heading in
the opposite direction. Once we met another steamer,
and the two great hulls floated slowly past each other,
with engines motionless, so near that the passengers
could have shaken hands with each other had they
been so disposed. Not that they were so disposed,
however; far from it. They gathered on their respective
decks and gazed at each other gravely; not a
smile was seen, not a word spoken, not the shadow of
it was the universal listlessness of the travelling
American bereft of his business, Othello with his
occupation gone. What can such a man do on a
steamer? Generally, nothing. Certainly he would
never think of any such light-hearted nonsense as a
smile or passing bow.
But the ships were, par excellence, the bewitched
craft, the Flying Dutchmen of the Flats. A brig, with
lofty, sky-scraping sails, bound south, came into view
of our steamer, bound north, and passed, we hugging
the shore to give her room; five minutes afterward the
sky-scraping sails we had left behind veered around in
front of us again; another five minutes, and there they
were far distant on the right; another, and there they
were again close by us on the left. For half an hour
those sails circled around us, and yet all the time we
were pushing steadily forward; this seemed witching
work indeed. Again, the numerous schooners thought
nothing of sailing overland; we saw them on all sides
gliding before the wind, or beating up against it over
the meadows as easily as over the water; sailing on
grass was a mere trifle to these spirit-barks. All this
we saw, as I said before, apparently. But in that
adverb is hidden the magic of the St. Clair Flats.
“It is beautiful, — beautiful,” I said, looking off
over the vivid green expanse.
“Beautiful?” echoed the captain, who had himself
entered the labyrinth, — “I don't see anything beautiful
in it! — Port your helm up there; port!”
“Port it is, sir,” came back from the pilot-house
above.
“These Flats give us more trouble than any other
spot on the lakes; vessels are all the time getting
aground and blocking up the way, which is narrow
enough at best. There 's some talk of Uncle Sam's
cutting a canal right through, — a straight canal; but
he 's so slow, Uncle Sam is, and I 'm afraid I 'll be
off the waters before the job is done.”
“A straight canal!” I repeated, thinking with
dismay of an ugly utilitarian ditch invading this
beautiful winding waste of green.
“Yes, you can see for yourself what a saving it
would be,” replied the captain. “We could run right
through in no time, day or night; whereas, now, we
have to turn and twist and watch every inch of the
whole everlasting marsh.” Such was the captain's
opinion. But we, albeit neither romantic nor artistic,
were captivated with his “everlasting marsh,” and
eager to penetrate far within its green fastnesses.
“I suppose there are other families living about
here, besides the family at the lighthouse?” I said.
“Never heard of any. They 'd have to live on a
raft if they did.”
“But there must be some solid ground.”
“Don't believe it; it 's nothing but one great sponge
for miles. — Steady up there; steady!”
“Very well,” said Raymond, “so be it. If there
is only the lighthouse, at the lighthouse we 'll get
off, and take our chances.”
“You 're surveyors, I suppose?” said the captain.
Surveyors are the pioneers of the lake-country,
understood by the people to be a set of harmless
monomaniacs, given to building little observatories
along-shore, where there is nothing to observe; mild
madmen, whose vagaries and instruments are equally
singular. As surveyors, therefore, the captain saw
nothing surprising in our determination to get off at
the lighthouse; if we had proposed going ashore on
a plank in the middle of Lake Huron, he would
have made no objection.
At length the lighthouse came into view, a little
fortress perched on spiles, with a ladder for entrance;
as usual in small houses, much time seemed devoted
to washing, for a large crane, swung to and fro by a
rope, extended out over the water, covered with fluttering
garments hung out to dry. The steamer lay
to, our row-boat was launched, our traps handed out,
Captain Kidd took his place in the bow, and we
pushed off into the shallows; then the great paddle-wheels
revolved again, and the steamer sailed away,
leaving us astern, rocking on her waves, and watched
listlessly by the passengers until a turn hid us from
children had appeared at the little windows
of the lighthouse, — too many of them, indeed, for
our hopes of comfort.
“Ten,” said Raymond, counting heads.
The ten, moved by curiosity as we approached,
hung out of the windows so far that they held on
merely by their ankles.
“We cannot possibly save them all,” I remarked,
looking up at the dangling gazers.
“O, they 're amphibious,” said Raymond; “webfooted,
I presume.”
We rowed up under the fortress, and demanded
parley with the keeper in the following language: —
“Is your father here?”
“No; but ma is,” answered the chorus. — “Ma!
ma!”
Ma appeared, a portly female, who held converse
with us from the top of the ladder. The sum and
substance of the dialogue was that she had not a
corner to give us, and recommended us to find
Liakim, and have him show us the way to Waiting
Samuel's.
“Waiting Samuel's?” we repeated.
“Yes; he 's a kind of crazy man living away over
there in the Flats. But there 's no harm in him,
and his wife is a tidy housekeeper. You be surveyors,
I suppose?”
We accepted the imputation in order to avoid a
broadside of questions, and asked the whereabouts
of Liakim.
“O, he 's round the point, somewhere there, fishing!”
We rowed on and found him, a little, round-shouldered
man, in an old flat-bottomed boat, who
had not taken a fish, and looked as though he never
would. We explained our errand.
“Did Rosabel Lee tell ye to come to me?” he
asked.
“The woman in the lighthouse told us,” I said.
“That 's Rosabel Lee, that 's my wife; I 'm Liakim
Lee,” said the little man, gathering together his forlorn
old rods and tackle, and pulling up his anchor.
Lived the beautiful Annabel Lee,”
“And what very remarkable feet had she!” added
Raymond, improvising under the inspiration of certain
shoes, scow-like in shape, gigantic in length and
breadth, which had made themselves visible at the
top round of the ladder.
At length the shabby old boat got under way, and
we followed in its path, turning off to the right
through a network of channels, now pulling ourselves
along by the reeds, now paddling over a raft
and now rowing with broad sweeps across the little
lake. The sun was sinking, and the western sky
grew bright at his coming; there was not a cloud
to make mountain-peaks on the horizon, nothing but
the level earth below meeting the curved sky above,
so evenly and clearly that it seemed as though we
could go out there and touch it with our hands.
Soon we lost sight of the little lighthouse; then
one by one the distant sails sank down and disappeared,
and we were left alone on the grassy sea,
rowing toward the sunset.
“We must have come a mile or two, and there is
no sign of a house,” I called out to our guide.
“Well, I don't pretend to know how far it is,
exactly,” replied Liakim; “we don't know how far
anything is here in the Flats, we don't.”
“But are you sure you know the way?”
“O my, yes! We 've got most to the boy. There
it is!”
The “boy” was a buoy, a fragment of plank painted
white, part of the cabin-work of some wrecked steamer.
“Now, then,” said Liakim, pausing, “you jest go
straight on in this here channel till you come to the
ninth run from this boy, on the right; take that, and
it will lead you right up to Waiting Samuel's door.”
“Are n't you coming with us?”
“Well, no. In the first place, Rosabel Lee will be
besides, Samuel can't abide to see none of us round his
part of the Flats.”
“But —” I began.
“Let him go,” interposed Raymond; “we can find
the house without trouble.” And he tossed a silver dollar
to the little man, who was already turning his boat.
“Thank you,” said Liakim. “Be sure you take the
ninth run and no other, — the ninth run from this boy.
If you make any mistake, you 'll find yourselves miles
away.”
With this cheerful statement, he began to row back.
I did not altogether fancy being left on the watery
waste without a guide; the name, too, of our mythic
host did not bring up a certainty of supper and beds.
“Waiting Samuel,” I repeated, doubtfully. “What is
he waiting for?” I called back over my shoulder;
for Raymond was rowing.
“The judgment-day!” answered Liakim, in a shrill
key. The boats were now far apart; another turn, and
we were alone.
We glided on, counting the runs on the right: some
were wide, promising rivers; others wee little rivulets;
the eighth was far away; and, when we had passed it,
we could hardly decide whether we had reached the
ninth or not, so small was the opening, so choked with
weeds, showing scarcely a gleam of water beyond when
we stood up to inspect it.
“It is certainly the ninth, and I vote that we try it.
It will do as well as another, and I, for one, am in no
hurry to arrive anywhere,” said Raymond, pushing the
boat in among the reeds.
“Do you want to lose yourself in this wilderness?”
I asked, making a flag of my handkerchief to mark the
spot where we had left the main stream.
“I think we are lost already,” was the calm reply.
I began to fear we were.
For some distance the “run,” as Liakim called it,
continued choked with aquatic vegetation, which acted
like so many devil-fish catching our oars; at length it
widened and gradually gave us a clear channel, albeit
so winding and erratic that the glow of the sunset, our
only beacon, seemed to be executing a waltz all round
the horizon. At length we saw a dark spot on the left,
and distinguished the outline of a low house. “There
it is,” I said, plying my oars with renewed strength.
But the run turned short off in the opposite direction,
and the house disappeared. After some time it rose
again, this time on our right, but once more the run
turned its back and shot off on a tangent. The sun
had gone, and the rapid twilight of September was falling
around us; the air, however, was singularly clear,
and, as there was absolutely nothing to make a shadow,
the darkness came on evenly over the level green. I
was growing anxious, when a third time the house appeared,
but the wilful run passed by it, although so near
“Why not get out and wade across?” I suggested.
“According to Liakim, it is the duty of this run to
take us to the very door of Waiting Samuel's mansion,
and it shall take us,” said Raymond, rowing on. It did.
Doubling upon itself in the most unexpected manner,
it brought us back to a little island, where the tall
grass had given way to a vegetable-garden. We landed,
secured our boat, and walked up the pathway toward
the house. In the dusk it seemed to be a low, square
structure, built of planks covered with plaster; the
roof was flat, the windows unusually broad, the door
stood open, — but no one appeared. We knocked. A
voice from within called out, “Who are you, and what
do you want with Waiting Samuel?”
“Pilgrims, asking for food and shelter,” replied Raymond.
“Do you know the ways of righteousness?”
“We can learn them.”
“Will you conform to the rules of this household
without murmuring?”
“We will.”
“Enter then, and peace be with you!” said the
voice, drawing nearer. We stepped cautiously through
the dark passage into a room, whose open windows let
in sufficient twilight to show us a shadowy figure.
“Seat yourselves,” it said. We found a bench, and sat
down.
“What seek ye here?” continued the shadow.
“Rest!” replied Raymond.
“Hunting and fishing!” I added.
“Ye will find more than rest,” said the voice, ignoring
me altogether (I am often ignored in this way),
— “more than rest, if ye stay long enough, and learn
of the hidden treasures. Are you willing to seek for
them?”
“Certainly!” said Raymond. “Where shall we
dig?”
“I speak not of earthly digging, young man. Will
you give me the charge of your souls?”
“Certainly, if you will also take charge of our
bodies.”
“Supper, for instance,” I said, again coming to the
front; “and beds.”
The shadow groaned; then it called out wearily,
“Roxana!”
“Yes, Samuel,” replied an answering voice, and a
second shadow became dimly visible on the threshold.
“The woman will attend to your earthly concerns,”
said Waiting Samuel. — “Roxana, take them
hence.” The second shadow came forward, and, without
a word, took our hands and led us along the
dark passage like two children, warning us now of
a step, now of a turn, then of two steps, and finally
opening a door and ushering us into a fire-lighted
room. Peat was burning upon the wide hearth, and
glow shone on a rough table, chairs cushioned in
bright calico, a loud-ticking clock, a few gayly flowered
plates and cups on a shelf, shining tins against
the plastered wall, and a cat dozing on a bit of carpet
in one corner. The cheery domestic scene, coming
after the wide, dusky Flats, the silence, the darkness,
and the mystical words of the shadowy Samuel,
seemed so real and pleasant that my heart grew
light within me.
“What a bright fire!” I said. “This is your domain,
I suppose, Mrs. — Mrs. —”
“I am not Mrs.; I am called Roxana,” replied the
woman, busying herself at the hearth.
“Ah, you are then the sister of Waiting Samuel,
I presume?”
“No, I am his wife, fast enough; we were married
by the minister twenty years ago. But that was before
Samuel had seen any visions.”
“Does he see visions?”
“Yes, almost every day.”
“Do you see them, also?”
“O no; I 'm not like Samuel. He has great
gifts, Samuel has! The visions told us to come here;
we used to live away down in Maine.”
“Indeed! That was a long journey!”
“Yes! And we did n't come straight either. We 'd
get to one place and stop, and I 'd think we were
Samuel would see another vision, and we 'd have
to start on. We wandered in that way two or three
years, but at last we got here, and something in the
Flats seemed to suit the spirits, and they let us
stay.”
At this moment, through the half-open door, came
a voice.
“An evil beast is in this house. Let him depart.”
“Do you mean me?” said Raymond, who had
made himself comfortable in a rocking-chair.
“Nay; I refer to the four-legged beast,” continued
the voice. “Come forth, Apollyon!”
Poor Captain Kidd seemed to feel that he was the
person in question, for he hastened under the table
with drooping tail and mortified aspect.
“Roxana, send forth the beast,” said the voice.
The woman put down her dishes and went toward
the table; but I interposed.
“If he must go, I will take him,” I said, rising.
“Yes; he must go,” replied Roxana, holding open
the door. So I ordered out the unwilling Captain,
and led him into the passageway.
“Out of the house, out of the house,” said Waiting
Samuel. “His feet may not rest upon this
sacred ground. I must take him hence in the boat.”
“But where?”
“Across the channel there is an islet large enough
for him; he shall have food and shelter, but here he
cannot abide,” said the man, leading the way down
to the boat.
The Captain was therefore ferried across, a tent
was made for him out of some old mats, food was
provided, and, lest he should swim back, he was
tethered by a long rope, which allowed him to prowl
around his domain and take his choice of three runs
for drinking-water. With all these advantages, the
ungrateful animal persisted in howling dismally as
we rowed away. It was company he wanted, and
not a “dear little isle of his own”; but then, he
was not by nature poetical.
“You do not like dogs?” I said, as we reached
our strand again.
“St. Paul wrote, `Beware of dogs,'” replied Samuel.
“But did he mean —”
“I argue not with unbelievers; his meaning is
clear to me, let that suffice,” said my strange host,
turning away and leaving me to find my way back
alone. A delicious repast was awaiting me. Years
have gone by, the world and all its delicacies have
been unrolled before me, but the memory of the
meals I ate in that little kitchen in the Flats haunts
me still. That night it was only fish, potatoes, biscuits,
butter, stewed fruit, and coffee; but the fish
not burn; the potatoes were fried to a rare crisp,
yet tender perfection, not chippy brittleness; the biscuits
were light, flaked creamily, and brown on the
bottom; the butter freshly churned, without salt;
the fruit, great pears, with their cores extracted,
standing whole on their dish, ready to melt, but not
melted; and the coffee clear and strong, with yellow
cream and the old-fashioned, unadulterated loaf-sugar.
We ate. That does not express it; we devoured.
Roxana waited on us, and warmed up into something
like excitement under our praises.
“I do like good cooking,” she confessed. “It 's
about all I have left of my old life. I go over to
the mainland for supplies, and in the winter I try all
kinds of new things to pass away the time. But Samuel
is a poor eater, he is; and so there is n't much
comfort in it. I 'm mighty glad you 've come, and
I hope you 'll stay as long as you find it pleasant.”
This we promised to do, as we finished the potatoes
and attacked the great jellied pears. “There 's
one thing, though,” continued Roxana; “you 'll have
to come to our service on the roof at sunrise.”
“What service?” I asked.
“The invocation. Dawn is a holy time, Samuel says,
and we always wait for it; `before the morning watch,'
you know, — it says so in the Bible. Why, my name
means `the dawn,' Samuel says; that 's the reason he
Maria, — Maria Ann.”
“But I may not wake in time,” I said.
“Samuel will call you.”
“And if, in spite of that, I should sleep over?”
“You would not do that; it would vex him,” replied
Roxana, calmly.
“Do you believe in these visions, madam?” asked
Raymond, as we left the table, and seated ourselves in
front of the dying fire.
“Yes,” said Roxana; emphasis was unnecessary, —
of course she believed.
“How often do they come?”
“Almost every day there is a spiritual presence, but
it does not always speak. They come and hold long
conversations in the winter, when there is nothing else
to do; that, I think, is very kind of them, for in the
summer Samuel can fish, and his time is more occupied.
There were fishermen in the Bible, you know; it is a
holy calling.”
“Does Samuel ever go over to the mainland?”
“No, he never leaves the Flats. I do all the business;
take over the fish, and buy the supplies. I
bought all our cattle,” said Roxana, with pride. “I
poled them away over here on a raft, one by one, when
they were little things.”
“Where do you pasture them?”
“Here, on the island; there are only a few acres, to
a stone's throw. If we only had a little more solid
ground! But this island is almost the only solid piece
in the Flats.”
“Your butter is certainly delicious.”
“Yes, I do my best. It is sold to the steamers and
vessels as fast as I make it.”
“You keep yourself busy, I see.”
“O, I like to work; I could n't get on without it.”
“And Samuel?”
“He is not like me,” replied Roxana. “He has great
gifts, Samuel has. I often think how strange it is that
I should be the wife of such a holy man! He is very
kind to me, too; he tells me about the visions, and all
the other things.”
“What things?” said Raymond.
“The spirits, and the sacred influence of the sun;
the fiery triangle, and the thousand years of joy. The
great day is coming, you know; Samuel is waiting for
it.”
“Nine of the night. Take thou thy rest. I will lay
me down in peace, and sleep, for it is thou, Lord, only,
that makest me dwell in safety,” chanted a voice in the
hall; the tone was deep and not without melody, and
the words singularly impressive in that still, remote
place.
“Go,” said Roxana, instantly pushing aside her half-washed
dishes. “Samuel will take you to your room.”
“Do you leave your work unfinished?” I said, with
some curiosity, noticing that she had folded her hands
without even hanging up her towels.
“We do nothing after the evening chant,” she said.
“Pray go; he is waiting.”
“Can we have candles?”
“Waiting Samuel allows no false lights in his house;
as imitations of the glorious sun, they are abominable
to him. Go, I beg.”
She opened the door, and we went into the passage;
it was entirely dark, but the man led us across to our
room, showed us the position of our beds by sense of
feeling, and left us without a word. After he had
gone, we struck matches, one by one, and, with the
aid of their uncertain light, managed to get into our
respective mounds in safety; they were shake-downs
on the floor, made of fragrant hay instead of straw,
covered with clean sheets and patchwork coverlids,
and provided with large, luxurious pillows. O pillow!
Has any one sung thy praises? When tired or sick,
when discouraged or sad, what gives so much comfort
as a pillow? Not your curled-hair brickbats; not your
stiff, fluted, rasping covers, or limp cotton cases; but
a good, generous, soft pillow, deftly cased in smooth,
cool, untrimmed linen! There 's a friend for you, a
friend who changes not, a friend who soothes all your
troubles with a soft caress, a mesmeric touch of balmy
forgetfulness.
I slept a dreamless sleep. Then I heard a voice
borne toward me as if coming from far over a sea, the
waves bringing it nearer and nearer.
“Awake!” it cried; “awake! The night is far
spent; the day is at hand. Awake!”
I wondered vaguely over this voice as to what
manner of voice it might be, but it came again, and
again, and finally I awoke to find it at my side. The
gray light of dawn came through the open windows,
and Raymond was already up, engaged with a tub of
water and crash towels. Again the chant sounded in
my ears.
“Very well, very well,” I said, testily. “But if you
sing before breakfast you 'll cry before night, Waiting
Samuel.”
Our host had disappeared, however, without hearing
my flippant speech, and slowly I rose from my fragrant
couch; the room was empty save for our two mounds,
two tubs of water, and a number of towels hanging on
nails. “Not overcrowded with furniture,” I remarked.
“From Maine to Florida, from Massachusetts to
Missouri, have I travelled, and never before found
water enough,” said Raymond. “If waiting for the
judgment-day raises such liberal ideas of tubs and
towels, I would that all the hotel-keepers in the land
could be convened here to take a lesson.”
Our green hunting-clothes were soon donned, and
we went out into the hall; a flight of broad steps led
us thither. We ascended, and found ourselves
on the flat roof. Samuel stood with his face toward
the east and his arms outstretched, watching the horizon;
behind was Roxana, with her hands clasped on
her breast and her head bowed: thus they waited.
The eastern sky was bright with golden light; rays
shot upward toward the zenith, where the rose-lights
of dawn were retreating down to the west, which still
lay in the shadow of night; there was not a sound;
the Flats stretched out dusky and still. Two or three
minutes passed, and then a dazzling rim appeared
above the horizon, and the first gleam of sunshine was
shed over the level earth; simultaneously the two began
a chant, simple as a Gregorian, but rendered in
correct full tones. The words, apparently, had been
collected from the Bible: —
Joy cometh in the morning!
In them is laid out the path of the sun —
Joy cometh in the morning!
As a bridegroom goeth he forth;
As a strong man runneth his race.
The outgoings of the morning
Praise thee, O Lord!
Like a pelican in the wilderness,
Like a sparrow upon the house-top,
I wait for the Lord.
It is good that we hope and wait,
Wait — wait.”
The chant over, the two stood a moment silently,
as if in contemplation, and then descended, passing
us without a word or sign, with their hands clasped
before them as though forming part of an unseen procession.
Raymond and I were left alone upon the
house-top.
“After all, it is not such a bad opening for a day;
and there is the pelican of the wilderness to emphasize
it,” I said, as a heron flew up from the water, and,
slowly flapping his great wings, sailed across to another
channel. As the sun rose higher, the birds began to
sing; first a single note here and there, then a little
trilling solo, and finally an outpouring of melody on
all sides, — land-birds and water-birds, birds that lived
in the Flats, and birds that had flown thither for breakfast,
— the whole waste was awake and rejoicing in the
sunshine.
“What a wild place it is!” said Raymond. “How
boundless it looks! One hill in the distance, one dark
line of forest, even one tree, would break its charm. I
have seen the ocean, I have seen the prairies, I have
seen the great desert, but this is like a mixture of the
three. It is an ocean full of land, — a prairie full of
water, — a desert full of verdure.”
“Whatever it is, we shall find in it fishing and
aquatic hunting to our hearts' content,” I answered.
And we did. After a breakfast delicious as the supper,
we took our boat and a lunch-basket, and set out.
pausing as I recalled the network of runs, and the
will-o'-the-wisp aspect of the house, the previous
evening.
“There is no other way but to take a large ball of
cord with you, fasten one end on shore, and let it run
out over the stern of the boat,” said Roxana. “Let it
run out loosely, and it will float on the water. When
you want to come back you can turn around and wind
it in as you come. I can read the Flats like a book,
but they 're very blinding to most people; and you
might keep going round in a circle. You will do
better not to go far, anyway. I 'll wind the bugle on
the roof an hour before sunset; you can start back
when you hear it; for it 's awkward getting supper
after dark.” With this musical promise we took the
clew of twine which Roxana rigged for us in the stern
of our boat, and started away, first releasing Captain
Kidd, who was pacing his islet in sullen majesty, like
another Napoleon on St. Helena. We took a new
channel and passed behind the house, where the imported
cattle were feeding in their little pasture; but
the winding stream soon bore us away, the house sank
out of sight, and we were left alone.
We had fine sport that morning among the ducks, —
wood, teal, and canvas-back, — shooting from behind
our screens woven of rushes; later in the day we took
to fishing. The sun shone down, but there was a cool
like early spring. At noon we took our lunch and
a siesta among the water-lilies. When we awoke we
found that a bittern had taken up his position near
by, and was surveying us gravely: —
That on a stone so silently and stilly
Stands, an apparent sentinel, as if
To guard the water-lily,'”
seemed quite undisturbed by our presence; yellow-throats
and swamp-sparrows also came in numbers
to have a look at us; and the fish swam up to
the surface and eyed us curiously. Lying at ease
in the boat, we in our turn looked down into the
water. There is a singular fascination in looking down
into a clear stream as the boat floats above; the mosses
and twining water-plants seem to have arbors and
grottos in their recesses, where delicate marine creatures
might live, naiads and mermaids of miniature
size; at least we are always looking for them. There
is a fancy, too, that one may find something, — a ring
dropped from fair fingers idly trailing in the water;
a book which the fishes have read thoroughly; a scarf
caught among the lilies; a spoon with unknown initials;
a drenched ribbon, or an embroidered handkerchief.
None of these things did we find, but we did
discover an old brass breastpin, whose probable glass
I fished it out with superstitious care, — a treasure-trove
of the Flats. “`Drowned,'” I said, pathetically,
“`drowned in her white robes —'”
“And brass breastpin,” added Raymond, who objected
to sentiment, true or false.
“You Philistine! Is nothing sacred to you?”
“Not brass jewelry, certainly.”
“Take some lilies and consider them,” I said, plucking
several of the queenly blossoms floating alongside.
Floating in thy galley down the Nile, —
All my soul does homage to thy splendor,
All my heart grows warmer in thy smile;
Yet thou smilest for thine own grand pleasure,
Caring not for all the world beside,
As in insolence of perfect beauty,
Sailest thou in silence down the tide.
“Loving, humble rivers all pursue thee,
Wasted are their kisses at thy feet;
Fiery sun himself cannot subdue thee,
Calm thou smilest through his raging heat;
Naught to thee the earth's great crowd of blossoms,
Naught to thee the rose-queen on her throne;
Haughty empress of the summer waters,
Livest thou, and diest, all alone.”
This from Raymond.
“Where did you find that?” I asked.
“It is my own.”
“Of course! I might have known it. There is a
certain rawness of style and versification which —”
“That 's right,” interrupted Raymond; “I know
just what you are going to say. The whole matter
of opinion is a game of `follow-my-leader'; not one
of you dares admire anything unless the critics say
so. If I had told you the verses were by somebody
instead of a nobody, you would have found wonderful
beauties in them.”
“Exactly. My motto is, `Never read anything
unless it is by a somebody.' For, don't you see, that
a nobody, if he is worth anything, will soon grow
into a somebody, and, if he is n't worth anything,
you will have saved your time!”
“But it is not merely a question of growing,” said
Raymond; “it is a question of critics.”
“No; there you are mistaken. All the critics in
the world can neither make nor crush a true poet.”
“What is poetry?” said Raymond, gloomily.
At this comprehensive question, the bittern gave
a hollow croak, and flew away with his long legs trailing
behind him. Probably he was not of an æsthetic
turn of mind, and dreaded lest I should give a ramified
answer.
Through the afternoon we fished when the fancy
struck us, but most of the time we floated idly, enjoying
the wild freedom of the watery waste. We
watched the infinite varieties of the grasses, feathery,
tongue, the wild-celery, and the so-called wild-rice,
besides many unknown beauties delicately fringed,
as difficult to catch and hold as thistle-down. There
were plants journeying to and fro on the water like
nomadic tribes of the desert; there were fleets of
green leaves floating down the current; and now and
then we saw a wonderful flower with scarlet bells,
but could never approach near enough to touch it.
At length, the distant sound of the bugle came to
us on the breeze, and I slowly wound in the clew,
directing Raymond as he pushed the boat along,
backing water with the oars. The sound seemed to
come from every direction. There was nothing for
it to echo against, but, in place of the echo, we heard
a long, dying cadence, which sounded on over the
Flats fainter and fainter in a sweet, slender note,
until a new tone broke forth. The music floated
around us, now on one side, now on the other; if
it had been our only guide, we should have been
completely bewildered. But I wound the cord steadily;
and at last suddenly, there before us, appeared
the house with Roxana on the roof, her figure outlined
against the sky. Seeing us, she played a final
salute, and then descended, carrying the imprisoned
music with her.
That night we had our supper at sunset. Waiting
Samuel had his meals by himself in the front room.
there to hinder them,” explained Roxana. “I am
not holy, like Samuel; they will not speak before
me.”
“Do you have your meals apart in the winter,
also?” asked Raymond.
“Yes.”
“That is not very sociable,” I said.
“Samuel never was sociable,” replied Roxana.
“Only common folks are sociable; but he is different.
He has great gifts, Samuel has.”
The meal over, we went up on the roof to smoke
our cigars in the open air; when the sun had disappeared
and his glory had darkened into twilight,
our host joined us. He was a tall man, wasted and
gaunt, with piercing dark eyes and dark hair, tinged
with gray, hanging down upon his shoulders. (Why
is it that long hair on the outside is almost always
the sign of something wrong in the inside of a man's
head?) He wore a black robe like a priest's cassock,
and on his head a black skull-cap like the Faust of
the operatic stage.
“Why were the Flats called St. Clair?” I said;
for there is something fascinating to me in the unknown
history of the West. “There is n't any,” do
you say? you, I mean, who are strong in the Punic
wars! you, too, who are so well up in Grecian mythology.
But there is history, only we don't know
Pharaohs, the story of the Mississippi during the
reign of Belshazzar, would be worth hearing. But it
is lost! All we can do is to gather together the
details of our era, — the era when Columbus came to
this New World, which was, nevertheless, as old as
the world he left behind.
“It was in 1679,” began Waiting Samuel, “that
La Salle sailed up the Detroit River in his little
vessel of sixty tons burden, called the Griffin. He
was accompanied by thirty-four men, mostly fur-traders;
but there were among them two holy monks,
and Father Louis Hennepin, a friar of the Franciscan
order. They passed up the river and entered the
little lake just south of us, crossing it and these
Flats on the 12th of August, which is Saint Clair's
day. Struck with the gentle beauty of the scene,
they named the waters after their saint, and at sunset
sang a Te Deum in her honor.”
“And who was Saint Clair?”
“Saint Clair, virgin and abbess, born in Italy, in
1193, made superior of a convent by the great Francis,
and canonized for her distinguished virtues,” said
Samuel, as though reading from an encyclopædia.
“Are you a Roman Catholic?” asked Raymond.
“I am everything; all sincere faith is sacred to me,”
replied the man. “It is but a question of names.”
“Tell us of your religion,” said Raymond, thoughtfully;
polyglot.
“You would hear of my faith? Well, so be it.
Your question is the work of spirit influence. Listen,
then. The great Creator has sowed immensity with
innumerable systems of suns. In one of these systems
a spirit forgot that he was a limited, subordinate
being, and misused his freedom; how, we know
not. He fell, and with him all his kind. A new
race was then created for the vacant world, and, according
to the fixed purpose of the Creator, each was
left free to act for himself; he loves not mere machines.
The fallen spirit, envying the new creature
called man, tempted him to sin. What was his sin?
Simply the giving up of his birthright, the divine
soul-sparkle, for a promise of earthly pleasure. The
triune divine deep, the mysterious fiery triangle,
which, to our finite minds, best represents the Deity,
now withdrew his personal presence; the elements,
their balance broken, stormed upon man; his body,
which was once ethereal, moving by mere volition,
now grew heavy; and it was also appointed unto
him to die. The race thus darkened, crippled, and
degenerate, sank almost to the level of the brutes,
the mind-fire alone remaining of all their spiritual
gifts. They lived on blindly, and as blindly died.
The sun, however, was left to them, a type of what
they had lost.
“At length, in the fulness of time, the world-day of
four thousand years, which was appointed by the council
in heaven for the regiving of the divine and forfeited
soul-sparkle, as on the fourth day of creation the
great sun was given, there came to earth the earth's
compassionate Saviour, who took upon himself our
degenerate body, and revivified it with the divine soul-sparkle,
who overcame all our temptations, and finally
allowed the tinder of our sins to perish in his own
painful death upon the cross. Through him our paradise
body was restored, it waits for us on the other
side of the grave. He showed us what it was like on
Mount Tabor, with it he passed through closed doors,
walked upon the water, and ruled the elements; so
will it be with us. Paradise will come again; this
world will, for a thousand years, see its first estate;
it will be again the Garden of Eden. America is the
great escaping-place; here will the change begin. As
it is written, `Those who escape to my utmost borders.'
As the time draws near, the spirits who watch above
are permitted to speak to those souls who listen. Of
these listening, waiting souls am I; therefore have I
withdrawn myself. The sun himself speaks to me,
the greatest spirit of all; each morning I watch for
his coming; each morning I ask, `Is it to-day?' Thus
do I wait.”
“And how long have you been waiting?” I asked.
“I know not; time is nothing to me.”
“Is the great day near at hand?” said Raymond.
“Almost at its dawning; the last days are passing.”
“How do you know this?”
“The spirits tell me. Abide here, and perhaps they
will speak to you also,” replied Waiting Samuel.
We made no answer. Twilight had darkened into
night, and the Flats had sunk into silence below us.
After some moments I turned to speak to our host;
but, noiselessly as one of his own spirits, he had
departed.
“A strange mixture of Jacob Bœhmen, chiliastic
dreams, Christianity, sun-worship, and modern spiritualism,”
I said. “Much learning hath made the Maine
farmer mad.”
“Is he mad?” said Raymond. “Sometimes I think
we are all mad.”
“We should certainly become so if we spent our
time in speculations upon subjects clearly beyond our
reach. The whole race of philosophers from Plato
down are all the time going round in a circle. As long
as we are in the world, I for one propose to keep my
feet on solid ground; especially as we have no wings.
`Abide here, and perhaps the spirits will speak to
you,' did he say? I think very likely they will, and to
such good purpose that you won't have any mind left.”
“After all, why should not spirits speak to us?”
said Raymond, in a musing tone.
As he uttered these words the mocking laugh of a
loon came across the dark waste.
“The very loons are laughing at you,” I said, rising.
“Come down; there is a chill in the air, composed
in equal parts of the Flats, the night, and Waiting
Samuel. Come down, man; come down to the warm
kitchen and common-sense.”
We found Roxana alone by the fire, whose glow was
refreshingly real and warm; it was like the touch of
a flesh-and-blood hand, after vague dreamings of spirit-companions,
cold and intangible at best, with the
added suspicion that, after all, they are but creations
of our own fancy, and even their spirit-nature fictitious.
Prime, the graceful raconteur who goes a-fishing,
says, “firelight is as much of a polisher in-doors
as moonlight outside.” It is; but with a different
result. The moonlight polishes everything into romance,
the firelight into comfort. We brought up
two remarkably easy old chairs in front of the hearth
and sat down, Raymond still adrift with his wandering
thoughts, I, as usual, making talk out of the present.
Roxana sat opposite, knitting in hand, the cat purring
at her feet. She was a slender woman, with faded
light hair, insignificant features, small dull blue eyes,
and a general aspect which, with every desire to state
at its best, I can only call commonplace. Her gown
was limp, her hands roughened with work, and there
was no collar around her yellow throat. O magic rim
without thee, he becomes at once a savage.
“I am out of pork,” remarked Roxana, casually; “I
must go over to the mainland to-morrow and get some.”
If it had been anything but pork! In truth, the
word did not chime with the mystic conversation of
Waiting Samuel. Yes; there was no doubt about it.
Roxana's mind was sadly commonplace.
“See what I have found,” I said, after a while, taking
out the old breastpin. “The stone is gone; but who
knows? It might have been a diamond dropped by
some French duchess, exiled, and fleeing for life across
these far Western waters; or perhaps that German
Princess of Brunswick-Wolfen-something-or-other, who,
about one hundred years ago, was dead and buried
in Russia, and travelling in America at the same
time, a sort of a female wandering Jew, who has
been done up in stories ever since.”
(The other day, in Bret Harte's “Melons,” I saw the
following: “The singular conflicting conditions of John
Brown's body and soul were, at that time, beginning
to attract the attention of American youth.” That is
good, is n't it? Well, at the time I visited the Flats,
the singular conflicting conditions of the Princess of
Brunswick-Wolfen-something-or-other had, for a long
time, haunted me.)
Roxana's small eyes were near-sighted; she peered
at the empty setting, but said nothing.
“It is water-logged,” I continued, holding it up in
the firelight, “and it hath a brassy odor; nevertheless,
I feel convinced that it belonged to the princess.”
Roxana leaned forward and took the trinket; I
lifted up my arms and gave a mighty stretch, one of
those enjoyable lengthenings-out which belong only to
the healthy fatigue of country life. When I drew myself
in again, I was surprised to see Roxana's features
working, and her rough hands trembling, as she held
the battered setting.
“It was mine,” she said; “my dear old cameo
breastpin that Abby gave me when I was married. I
saved it and saved it, and would n't sell it, no matter
how low we got, for someway it seemed to tie me to
home and baby's grave. I used to wear it when I
had baby — I had neck-ribbons then; we had things
like other folks, and on Sundays we went to the old
meeting-house on the green. Baby is buried there —
O baby, baby!” and the voice broke into sobs.
“You lost a child?” I said, pitying the sorrow
which was, which must be, so lonely, so unshared.
“Yes. O baby! baby!” cried the woman, in a wailing
tone. “It was a little boy, gentlemen, and it had
curly hair, and could just talk a word or two; its
name was Ethan, after father, but we all called it
Robin. Father was mighty proud of Robin, and
mother, too. It died, gentlemen, my baby died, and
I buried it in the old churchyard near the thorn-tree.
mother and the girls; I never supposed anything else,
until Samuel began to see visions. Then, everything
was different, and everybody against us; for, you see,
I would marry Samuel, and when he left off working,
and began to talk to the spirits, the folks all said, `I
told yer so, Maria Ann!' Samuel was n't of Maine
stock exactly: his father was a sailor, and 't was suspected
that his mother was some kind of an East-Injia
woman, but no one knew. His father died and left
the boy on the town, so he lived round from house to
house until he got old enough to hire out. Then he
came to our farm, and there he stayed. He had wonderful
eyes, Samuel had, and he had a way with him
— well, the long and short of it was, that I got to
thinking about him, and could n't think of anything
else. The folks did n't like it at all, for, you see, there
was Adam Rand, who had a farm of his own over the
hill; but I never could bear Adam Rand. The worst
of it was, though, that Samuel never so much as looked
at me, hardly. Well, it got to be the second year, and
Susan, my younger sister, married Adam Rand. Adam,
he thought he 'd break up my nonsense, that 's what
they called it, and so he got a good place for Samuel
away down in Connecticut, and Samuel said he 'd go,
for he was always restless, Samuel was. When I
heard it, I was ready to lie down and die. I ran out
into the pasture and threw myself down by the fence
along the lane, and saw me; he was always kind to all
the dumb creatures, and stopped to see what was the
matter, just as he would have stopped to help a calf.
It all came out then, and he was awful sorry for me.
He sat down on the top bar of the fence and looked at
me, and I sat on the ground a-crying with my hair
down, and my face all red and swollen.
“`I never thought to marry, Maria Ann,' says he.
“`O, please do, Samuel,' says I, `I 'm a real good
housekeeper, I am, and we can have a little land of
our own, and everything nice —'
“`But I wanted to go away. My father was a
sailor,' he began, a-looking away off toward the ocean.
“`O, I can't stand it, — I can't stand it,' says I,
beginning to cry again. Well, after that he 'greed
to stay at home and marry me, and the folks they
had to give in to it when they saw how I felt. We
were married on Thanksgiving day, and I wore a pink
delaine, purple neck-ribbon, and this very breastpin
that sister Abby gave me, — it cost four dollars, and
came 'way from Boston. Mother kissed me, and said
she hoped I 'd be happy.
“`Of course I shall, mother,' says I. `Samuel has
great gifts; he is n't like common folks.'
“`But common folks is a deal comfortabler,' says
mother. The folks never understood Samuel.
“Well, we had a chirk little house and bit of
The visions had begun to appear then, and Samuel
said he must go.
“`Where?' says I.
“`Anywhere the spirits lead me,' says he.
“But baby could n't travel, and so it hung along;
Samuel left off work, and everything ran down to
loose ends; I did the best I could, but it was n't
much. Then baby died, and I buried him under the
thorn-tree, and the visions came thicker and thicker,
and Samuel told me as how this time he must go.
The folks wanted me to stay behind without him;
but they never understood me nor him. I could no
more leave him than I could fly; I was just wrapped
up in him. So we went away; I cried dreadfully
when it came to leaving the folks and Robin's little
grave, but I had so much to do after we got started,
that there was n't time for anything but work. We
thought to settle in ever so many places, but after a
while there would always come a vision, and I 'd have
to sell out and start on. The little money we had was
soon gone, and then I went out for days' work, and
picked up any work I could get. But many 's the time
we were cold, and many 's the time we were hungry,
gentlemen. The visions kept coming, and by and by I
got to like 'em too. Samuel he told me all they said
when I came home nights, and it was nice to hear all
about the thousand years of joy, when there 'd be no
again. Only I told Samuel that I hoped the world
would n't alter much, because I wanted to go back
to Maine for a few days, and see all the old places.
Father and mother are dead, I suppose,” said Roxana,
looking up at us with a pathetic expression in her
small dull eyes. Beautiful eyes are doubly beautiful
in sorrow; but there is something peculiarly pathetic
in small dull eyes looking up at you, struggling to
express the grief that lies within, like a prisoner behind
the bars of his small dull window.
“And how did you lose your breastpin?” I said,
coming back to the original subject.
“Samuel found I had it, and threw it away soon
after we came to the Flats; he said it was vanity.”
“Have you been here long?”
“O yes, years. I hope we shall stay here always
now, — at least, I mean until the thousand years of joy
begin, — for it 's quiet, and Samuel 's more easy here
than in any other place. I 've got used to the lonely
feeling, and don't mind it much now. There 's no one
near us for miles, except Rosabel Lee and Liakim;
they don't come here, for Samuel can't abide 'em, but
sometimes I stop there on my way over from the
mainland, and have a little chat about the children.
Rosabel Lee has got lovely children, she has! They
don't stay there in the winter, though; the winters are
long, I don't deny it.”
“What do you do then?”
“Well, I knit and cook, and Samuel reads to me,
and has a great many visions.”
“He has books, then?”
“Yes, all kinds; he 's a great reader, and he has
boxes of books about the spirits, and such things.”
“Nine of the night. Take thou thy rest. I will
lay me down in peace and sleep; for it is thou, Lord,
only, that makest me dwell in safety,” chanted the
voice in the hall; and our evening was over.
At dawn we attended the service on the roof; then,
after breakfast, we released Captain Kidd, and started
out for another day's sport. We had not rowed far
when Roxana passed us, poling her flat-boat rapidly
along; she had a load of fish and butter, and was
bound for the mainland village. “Bring us back a
Detroit paper,” I said. She nodded and passed on,
stolid and homely in the morning light. Yes, I was
obliged to confess to myself that she was commonplace.
A glorious day we had on the moors in the rushing
September wind. Everything rustled and waved and
danced, and the grass undulated in long billows as far
as the eye could see. The wind enjoyed himself like
a mad creature; he had no forests to oppose him, no
heavy water to roll up, — nothing but merry, swaying
grasses. It was the west wind, — “of all the winds,
the best wind.” The east wind was given us for our
the angel that drove Adam out of Paradise. We did
nothing that day, — nothing but enjoy the rushing
breeze. We felt like Bedouins of the desert, with our
boat for a steed. “He came flying upon the wings
of the wind,” is the grandest image of the Hebrew
poet.
Late in the afternoon we heard the bugle and returned,
following our clew as before. Roxana had
brought a late paper, and, opening it, I saw the account
of an accident, — a yacht run down on the
Sound and five drowned; five, all near and dear to us.
Hastily and sadly we gathered our possessions together;
the hunting, the fishing, were nothing now;
all we thought of was to get away, to go home to the
sorrowing ones around the new-made graves. Roxana
went with us in her boat to guide us back to the little
lighthouse. Waiting Samuel bade us no farewell, but as
we rowed away we saw him standing on the house-top
gazing after us. We bowed; he waved his hand; and
then turned away to look at the sunset. What were
our little affairs to a man who held converse with the
spirits!
We rowed in silence. How long, how weary seemed
the way! The grasses, the lilies, the silver channels, —
we no longer even saw them. At length the forward
boat stopped. “There 's the lighthouse yonder,” said
Roxana. “I won't go over there to-night. Mayhap
talk to me. Good by.” We shook hands, and I laid
in the boat a sum of money to help the little household
through the winter; then we rowed on toward
the lighthouse. At the turn I looked back; Roxana
was sitting motionless in her boat; the dark clouds
were rolling up behind her; and the Flats looked wild
and desolate. “God help her!” I said.
A steamer passed the lighthouse and took us off
within the hour.
Years rolled away, and I often thought of the grassy
sea, and intended to go there; but the intention
never grew into reality. In 1870, however, I was
travelling westward, and, finding myself at Detroit, a
sudden impulse took me up to the Flats. The steamer
sailed up the beautiful river and crossed the little lake,
both unchanged. But, alas! the canal predicted by
the captain fifteen years before had been cut, and, in
all its unmitigated ugliness, stretched straight through
the enchanted land. I got off at the new and prosaic
brick lighthouse, half expecting to see Liakim
and his Rosabel Lee; but they were not there, and
no one knew anything about them. And Waiting
Samuel? No one knew anything about him, either.
I took a skiff, and, at the risk of losing myself, I
rowed away into the wilderness, spending the day
among the silvery channels, which were as beautiful
as ever. There were fewer birds; I saw no grave
shy. But the water-lilies were beautiful as of old,
and the grasses as delicate and luxuriant. I had
scarcely a hope of finding the old house on the island,
but late in the afternoon, by a mere chance, I rowed
up unexpectedly to its little landing-place. The walls
stood firm and the roof was unbroken; I landed and
walked up the overgorwn path. Opening the door,
I found the few old chairs and tables in their places,
weather-beaten and decayed, the storms had forced a
way within, and the floor was insecure; but the gay
crockery was on its shelf, the old tins against the
wall, and all looked so natural that I almost feared
to find the mortal remains of the husband and wife
as I went from room to room. They were not there,
however, and the place looked as if it had been
uninhabited for years. I lingered in the doorway.
What had become of them? Were they dead? Or
had a new vision sent them farther toward the setting
sun? I never knew, although I made many inquiries.
If dead, they were probably lying somewhere
under the shining waters; if alive, they must have
“folded their tents, like the Arabs, and silently stolen
away.”
I rowed back in the glow of the evening across
the grassy sea. “It is beautiful, beautiful,” I thought,
“but it is passing away. Already commerce has invaded
its borders; a few more years and its loveliness
has vanished; the loon has fled away. Waiting
Samuel was the prophet of the waste; he has gone,
and the barriers are broken down. Farewell, beautiful
grass-water! No artist has painted, no poet has
sung your wild, vanishing charm; but in one heart,
at least, you have a place, O lovely land of St.
Clair!”
| Castle nowhere | |