The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 07, No. 40, February, 1861

For some time, luck appeared to favor the starboard side of the boat, at which the take was much greater than at the other. Hence, discontent began to crawl in at the port-gangways, and the fishermen on that side were gradually edging over to the other, to look for a chance of stealing in their lines clandestinely between the ranks. This led to an interchange of bad compliments, as well as to a very perceptible slanting of the deck, and the captain piped out to the hands to shift the chain-box. And by this action was resolved for me a riddle with regard to the properties and uses of a prematurely stout man of fabulous girth, who had been dimly revealed to me, once or twice in the course of the voyage, through some long vista of the 'tween-decks, but seemed always to melt into air,—or, more probably, oil,—upon any advance being made to a closer inspection. Now, as a couple of the deck-hands hauled and howled unsuccessfully at the unwieldy chain-box, this mysterious person suddenly appeared, as if spirited up, and, throwing himself stomach on to the loaded vehicle, shot across with it to the other side of the deck with wonderful velocity, retiring, then, with a gliding movement, so as to preserve the rectitude of the deck, which now seemed inclined to slope rather too much the other way. I will not undertake to say, for certain, that the stout man was paid for doing this; but, as his hands were small and remarkably white, indications that he toiled not with them, and as he made his appearance on deck only when movable ballast was wanted, I am bound to suppose that he secured a living by sitting heavily and throwing himself on for weight, in circumstances under which such actions command a standard value.

Three hours having gone by since we came to anchor, the healthful toil of fishing in the salt sea produced its natural result,—a ravenous appetite for food and drink; and a common consent to partake of refreshments now began to develop itself. The wives had much to do with this, as they detailed themselves along the railings, influencing their husbands with hints about the hamper and flask. For most of the family-people had brought their provisions with them; and, in many cases, the basket was flanked by a stone jar which looked as if it might contain lager-beer,—as, in several instances, it did. Where there were many small children in a party, however, I noticed that the beverage obtained from the jar was milk,—real Orange County cow-produce, let us hope, and none of that sickly town-abomination, the vending of which ought to be made by our legislators a felony, at least. Ham-sandwiches, greatly enhanced in flavor by the circumstance of their outer surfaces being impressed with a reverse of yesterday's news, from the contact of the pieces of newspaper in which they were wrapped up, formed the staple of the feast. Large bowls of the various, seasonable berries were also in request; and all the shady places of the ship were soon occupied by families, who distributed themselves in independent groups, as people do in the sylvan localities dedicated to picnics. All were hungry and happy, all better in mind and body,—illustrating the wise providence of the instinct that whispers to the over-wrought artisan and bids him go sometimes forth on a summer's day to the woods and waters,—a move which the marine character of the subject impels me to speak of nautically, but reverently, as taking himself and family into the graving-dock of Nature, for the necessary repairs.

Some of the girls now stole slyly about among the lines, and popped the baits timidly into the blue water. The pale seamstress, who has quite a rose-flush on her cheek now, has hooked a good-sized porgy, and her screams in this terrible predicament have brought several smart young men to her rescue. Another girl, pretty and well-dressed,—in the glove-making line, as I guess from the family she is with, all of whom, from paterfamilias to baby, are begloved in a manner entirely irrespective of expense,—is kneeling pensively on the stern-benches of the upper deck, paying out the line with confidence in herself, but evidently hoping for masculine assistance in the process of hauling it in.

And where were our dear friends, the roughs, all this time? and how came it that they were so quiet? They have been asleep,—snoring off the effects of last night's diversions, and fortifying their constitutions against the influences to come. Ever since the music ceased playing, these fellows have been rolled away, singly or in heaps, in crooked corners, into which they seem to fit naturally. But now they began to rally, waking up and stretching themselves and yawning,—the last two actions appearing to be the leading operations of a rowdy's toilet; and, gathering round Lobster Bob, who has been steadily employed in opening oysters for all who have a midsummer faith in those mollusks, they commenced rapidly swallowing great quantities of the various kinds, which they seasoned to an alarming extent with coarse black pepper and brownish salt. The fierce thirst, which, with these men, is not a consequence, because it is a thing that was and is and ever will be, was brought vividly to their minds by this unnecessary adstimulation; and now the bar-keeper, whose lager-beer was wellnigh exhausted, from its connection with ham-sandwiches, had enough to do to furnish them with whiskey, of which stimulant there was but too large a supply on hand. The consequence of this was soon apparent in the ugly hilarity with which the rowdies entered upon the enjoyment of the afternoon. First, in spite of the remonstrances of the Teuton whose proper chattel it was, they seized upon the large drum, with which they made an astounding din in the public promenades of the vessel, abetted, I am sorry to say, by some who ought to have known better,—and did, probably, before the whiskey had curdled their wits. In this proceeding, as in all their movements, they were marshalled by Flashy Joe, whose comparatively spruce appearance, when he came on board in the morning, had been a good deal deteriorated by broken slumbers in places not remote from coals, and by the subsequent course of drinks. Quiet people were beginning to express some dissatisfaction with the noise made by these fellows, who, however, kept pretty much by themselves, as yet, and had got only to the musical stage of the proceedings, chorusing with unearthly yells a song contributed to the harmony of the afternoon by the first ruffian, the burden of which ran,—

"When this old hat was ny-oo, my boys,When this old hat was ny-oo-ooo!"

No voice in this chorus dwelt more decidedly by itself than the shrill one belonging to the small, spare man already spoken of as having a buxom young wife and blue cotton overalls. During his wife's adjournment to the ladies' cabin, this person, I am obliged to record, had become boisterously drunk,—a condition in which the contradictory elements that make up the characters of most men are generally developed to an instructive extent. In his first paroxysm, the fighting man within him was all aroused, as is generally the case with diminutive men, when under the influence of drink. Already he had tucked his sleeves up to fight a large German musician, who could have put him into the bell of his brass-horn and played him out, without much trouble. But the song pacified him; and, with a misty sense of his importance in a convivial point of view, on account of the manner in which he had acquitted himself in the chorus, he now essayed a higher flight, and treated the party to a new version of "The Pope," oddly condensed into one verse, as follows:—

"The Pope, he leads a happy life,He fears no married care nor strife,His wives are many as be will:I would the Sultan's place, then, fill!"

At this moment the buxom young wife descended suddenly from the upper deck by the forecastle-ladder, like Nemesis from a thunder-cloud, and, seizing upon the small warbler, to whom she administered a preliminary shake which must have sadly changed the current of his ideas, drove him ignominiously before her toward the stern of the vessel, rapping him occasionally about the ears with the hard end of her fan, to keep him on a straight course. Persons who traced the matter farther said that he was driven all the way to the upper deck, pushed with gentle violence into a state-room, the door locked upon him, and the key pocketed by the lady, who said triumphantly, as she walked away,—"That's the Sultan's place for him, I guess!" The moral to this little episode is but a horn-book one, and without any pretension to didactic force: That respectable citizens, like the small, spare man, would do well, on excursion-trips or elsewhere, to avoid whiskey and black-guards; and that wives might be saved a deal of trouble by keeping their eyes permanently on their husbands, when the latter are of uncertain ways.

This little domestic drama had hardly been played out, when a more serious one—almost a tragedy—was enacted on the forecastle. It originated in the misconduct of the red man, who, seized with a desire to catch porgies, went a short way to work for tackle, by snatching away the line of a peaceable, but stout Frenchman, who was paralyzed for a moment by the novelty of the thing, but, immediately recovering himself, expressed his dissent by smashing an earthen-ware dish, containing a great mess of raw clams for bait, upon the head of the red man, as he stooped over the railing to fish. This led to a general fight, in which blood flowed freely, and the roughs were getting rather the upper-hand. Knives were drawn by some of the Germans and others in self-defence, and great consternation reigned in the afterpart of the boat and the neighborhood of the ladies' cabin. Then the slim captain of the boat—the one in the black dress-coat—hurriedly whispered something to Lobster Bob, who rushed away aft, where the fight was now agglomerating, headed by the red man and Flashy Joe, both covered with blood, and looking like demons, as they wrestled and bit through the Crowd. Just as they hustled past a large chest intended for the stowage of life-preservers, Lobster Bob kicked the lid of it open with a bang, and, seizing up the red man, neck and crop, with his huge, tattooed hands, dropped him into it and shut down the lid, which was promptly sat upon by the large, stout, smiling man already favorably spoken of in these pages, who suddenly made his appearance from nowhere in particular. The picture of contentment, he sat there like one who knew how, caressing slowly his large knees with his short, plump hands, until the cries from the chest began to wax feeble, when he slowly arose, vanished, and I never saw him again. The red rowdy was then dragged, half-suffocated, from his imprisonment, and as much life as he ought ever to be intrusted with restored to him by the stout old skipper, who was at hand with a couple of buckets full of cold salt-water, with which he drenched him liberally, as he slunk away. A diversion thus effected, the disturbance was quelled. All was quiet in a short time, and the word was passed to heave the anchor and 'bout ship for home.

On the way back, we took a pleasant course inside the Hook, which brought the charming scenery of the Jersey shore and of Staten Island before us, as a pleasant drop-curtain on the melodrama just closed. The music again struck up, and dancing was resumed with fresh vigor,—the waltzing of all other couples being quite eclipsed by that of Young New York and little Straw-Goods, who had effectually got rid of her tipsy persecutor ever since the ground-swell, and was keeping rather in the background of late, with a sober-minded lady whom she called "aunty." With the exception of the few who took to whiskey and bad company, all appeared contented, and the better for their sea-holiday. The very musicians played with greater spirit than they did before, owing, perhaps, to their remarkable success in the porgy-fishery. One of the horn-players, far too knowing to let his fish out of sight, has propped his music-book up against a pyramid of them, as upon a desk. The good-looking man who plays upon the double-bass is equally prudent with regard to his trophies, which he has hung up around the post on which is pinned the score to which he looks for directions when it becomes necessary to bind together with string-music the pensive interchanges of the sax-horn and bassoon.

And now, as our vessel neared the wharf from which we had started while the sun was yet in the east, I looked forward to see what signs of the times were astir on the forecastle. All had deserted it, and were tending aft, with their tackle, their fish, and their prog-baskets,—all, at least, except Raw Material, of whom we enjoyed now an uninterrupted view, as he sat in his old position, with his head jammed obstinately into the capstan. But how was this?—he was round at the opposite side of it now; and I puzzled myself for a moment, thinking whether this change of bearings could be accounted for by the fact of the boat being headed the other way.

But Young New York, who is far more nautical than I am, and has a big brother in one of the yacht-clubs, derided the idea, and said he must have gone round with the handspikes, when the anchor was hove.

And there he remained, as we went our way,—a modern Spartan slave in a kind of marine pillory,—conveying to the red-legged children of Gotham, as they toddled ashore, a useful lesson on the doubtful relations existing between whiskey and pleasure.

COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION

The beaver cut his timberWith patient teeth that day,The minks were fish-wards, and the cowsSurveyors of highway,—When Keezar sat on the hillsideUpon his cobbler's form,With a pan of coals on either handTo keep his waxed-ends warm.And there, in the golden weather,He stitched and hammered and sung;In the brook he moistened his leather,In the pewter mug his tongue.Well knew the tough old TeutonWho brewed the stoutest ale,And he paid the good-wife's reckoningIn the coin of song and tale.The songs they still are singingWho dress the hills of vine,The tales that haunt the BrockenAnd whisper down the Rhine.Woodsy and wild and lonesome,The swift stream wound away,Through birches and scarlet maplesFlashing in foam and spray,—Down on the sharp-horned ledgesPlunging in steep cascade,Tossing its white-maned watersAgainst the hemlock's shade.Woodsy and wild and lonesome,East and west and north and south;Only the village of fishersDown at the river's mouth;Only here and there a clearingWith its farm-house rude and new,And tree-stumps, swart as Indians,Where the scanty harvest grew.No shout of home-bound reapers,No vintage-song he heard,And on the green no dancing feetThe merry violin stirred."Why should folk be glum," said Keezar,"When Nature herself is glad,And the painted woods are laughingAt the faces so sour and sad?"Small heed had the careless cobblerWhat sorrow of heart was theirsWho travailed in pain with the births of God,And planted a state with prayers,—Hunting of witches and warlocks,Smiting the heathen horde,—One hand on the mason's trowel,And one on the soldier's sword!But give him his ale and cider,Give him his pipe and song,Little he cared for church or state,Or the balance of right and wrong."'Tis work, work, work," he muttered,—"And for rest a snuffle of psalms!"He smote on his leathern apronWith his brown and waxen palms."Oh for the purple harvestsOf the days when I was young!For the merry grape-stained maidens,And the pleasant songs they sung!"Oh for the breath of vineyards,Of apples and nuts and wine!For an oar to row and a breeze to blowDown the grand old river Rhine!"A tear in his blue eye glistenedAnd dropped on his beard so gray."Old, old am I," said Keezar,"And the Rhine flows far away!"But a cunning man was the cobbler;He could call the birds from the trees,Charm the black snake out of the ledges,And bring back the swarming bees.All the virtues of herbs and metals,All the lore of the woods he knew,And the arts of the Old World mingledWith the marvels of the New.Well he knew the tricks of magic,And the lapstone on his kneeHad the gift of the Mormon's gogglesOr the stone of Doctor Dee.For the mighty master AgrippaWrought it with spell and rhymeFrom a fragment of mystic moonstoneIn the tower of Nettesheim.To a cobbler MinnesingerThe marvellous stone gave he,—And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar,Who brought it over the sea.He held up that mystic lapstone,He held it up like a lens,And he counted the long years comingBy twenties and by tens."One hundred years," quoth Keezar,"And fifty have I told:Now open the new before me,And shut me out the old!"Like a cloud of mist, the blacknessRolled from the magic stone,And a marvellous picture mingledThe unknown and the known.Still ran the stream to the river,And river and ocean joined;And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line,And cold north hills behind.But the mighty forest was brokenBy many a steepled town,By many a white-walled farm-houseAnd many a garner brown.Turning a score of mill-wheels,The stream no more ran free;White sails on the winding river,White sails on the far-off sea.Below in the noisy villageThe flags were floating gay,And shone on a thousand facesThe light of a holiday.Swiftly the rival ploughmenTurned the brown earth from their shares;Here were the farmer's treasures,There were the craftsman's wares.Golden the good-wife's butter,Ruby her currant-wine;Grand were the strutting turkeys,Fat were the beeves and swine.Yellow and red were the apples,And the ripe pears russet-brown,And the peaches had stolen blushesFrom the girls who shook them down.And with blooms of hill and wild-wood,That shame the toil of art,Mingled the gorgeous blossomsOf the garden's tropic heart."What is it I see?" said Keezar:"Am I here, or am I there?Is it a fête at Bingen?Do I look on Frankfort fair?"But where are the clowns and puppets,And imps with horns and tail?And where are the Rhenish flagons?And where is the foaming ale?"Strange things, I know, will happen,—Strange things the Lord permits;But that droughty folk should be jollyPuzzles my poor old wits."Here are smiling manly faces,And the maiden's step is gay;Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking,Nor mopes, nor fools are they."Hero's pleasure without regretting,And good without abuse,The holiday and the bridalOf beauty and of use."Here's a priest and there is a Quaker,—Do the cat and the dog agree?Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood?Have they cut down the gallows-tree?"Would the old folk know their children?Would they own the graceless town,With never a ranter to worryAnd never a witch to drown?"Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar,Laughed like a school-boy gay;Tossing his arms above him,The lapstone rolled away.It rolled down the rugged hill-side,It spun like a wheel bewitched,It plunged through the leaning willows,And into the river pitched.There, in the deep, dark water,The magic stone lies still,Under the leaning willowsIn the shadow of the hill.But oft the idle fisherSits on the shadowy bank,And his dreams make marvellous picturesWhere the wizard's moonstone sank.And still, in the summer twilights,When the river seems to runOut from the inner glory,Warm with the melted sun,The weary mill-girl lingersBeside the charmed stream,And the sky and the golden waterShape and color her dream.Fair wave the sunset gardens,The rosy signals fly;Her homestead beckons from the cloud,And love goes sailing by!

THE FIRST ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH

"In the name of the Prophet:—Figs!"

"Eh, bien, Sare! wiz you Field and ze uzzers! Zey is ver' good men, sans doute, an' zey know how make ze money; mais—gros matérialistes, I tell you, Sare! Vat zen? I sall sink I know, I! Oui, Monsieur, I, César Prévost, who has ze honneur to stand before you,—I am ze original inventeur of ze Télégraphique Communication wiz Europe!"

It was about the period when, with the fast world of cities, De Sauty was beginning to become type of an "ism"; already the attention of excitement-hunters had travelled far from Trinity Bay, and Cyrus Field had yielded his harvest. Nevertheless, to me, who had just come to town from a quiet country seclusion into which news made its entry teredo-fashion only, the performances of the Agamemnon and Niagara were matters of fresh and vivid interest. So I purchased Mr. Briggs's book, and went to Guy's, to cut the leaves over a steak and a bottle of Edinburgh ale. It was while I was thus engaged that the little Frenchman had accosted me, calling my attention to his wares with such perfect courtesy, such airy grace, that I was forced to look at his baskets. And looking, I was induced to lay down my book and examine them more closely; for they were really pretty,—made of extremely white and delicate wood, showing an exquisite taste in their design, and being neatly and carefully finished. Then it was, that, having apparently noticed the title of my book, M. César Prévost had used the language above quoted, and with such empressement of manner, that my attention was diverted from his wares to himself. I looked at him with some curiosity.

He was a little old Frenchman, lean as a haunch of dried venison, and scarcely less dark in complexion,—though his color was nearer that of rappee snuff, and had not the rich blood-lined purple of venison. His face was wofully meagre, and seemed scored and overlaid with care-marks. Nevertheless, there was an energetic, nervous, almost humorsome mobility about his mouth; while his little beady black eyes, quick, warm, scintillant, had ten times the life one would have expected to find keeping company with his fifty years. In dress, he was very threadbare, and, sooth to say, not over-clean; yet he was jaunty, and moved with the air of a man much better clad. I was impressed with his appearance, and especially with his voice, which was vibrant, firm, and excellently intoned. It is my foible, perhaps, but I am always charmed with bonhommie, I class originality among the cardinal virtues, and I am as eager in the chase after eccentricity as a veteran fox-hunter is in pursuit of Reynard. M. César promised a compensative proportion of all three qualities, could I only "draw him out"; and besides, he was not like Mr. Canning's "Knife-Grinder,"—for, evidently, he had a story to tell.

Observing my scrutiny, he smiled; a singular, ironical smile it was, yet without a particle of bitterness or of cynicism.

"Eh, bien!" said he; "you stare, Monsieur! you sink me an excentrique. Vraiment! I am use to zat,—I am use to have persons smile reeseeblement, to tap zere fronts, an' spek of ze strait-jackets. Never fear,—I am toujours harmless! Mais, Monsieur, it is true, vat I tell you: I am ze origi_nal_ inventeur of ze Atlantic Telegraph! You mus' not comprehend me, Sare, to intend somesing vat persons call ze Telegraph,—such like ze Electric Telegraph of Monsieur Morse,—a vulgaire sing of ze vire and ze acid. Mon Dieu, non! far more perfect,—far more grrand,—far more original! Ze acid may burn ze finger,—ze vire vill become rrusty,—ze isolation subject always to ze atmosphere. Ah, bah! Vat make you in zat event? As ze pure lustre of ze diamant of Golconde to ze distorted rays of a morsel of bottle-glass, so my grrand invention to ze modes of ze telegraph in vogue at present!"

"Monsieur, you shall tell me about it," said I, pointing to a seat on the other side of the table; "sit down there, and tell me about your invention, and in your native language,—that is, if you can spare the time to do so, and to drink a glass of Bordeaux with me."

He accepted my invitation as a gentleman would, sipped his wine like a connoisseur, passed me a few compliments, such as any French gentleman might toss to you, if you had asked him to join you in a glass of wine in one of his city's cafés, and then proceeded with his story. My translation gives but a faint echo of the impression made upon me by his life, vigor, and originality; but still I have striven to do him as little injustice as possible.

"Monsieur, it is ten years since I accomplished, put in practice, and evoked practical results from this international communication, which your two peoples have failed to establish, in spite of all their money, their great ships, and the united wisdom of their savans. I am a Frenchman, Monsieur,—and, you know, France is the congenial soil of Science. In that country, where they laugh ever and se jouent de tout, Science is sacred;—the Academy has even pas of the army; honors there are higher prized than the very wreaths of glory. Among the votaries of Science in France, César Prévost was the humblest,—serviteur, Monsieur. Nevertheless, though my place was only in the outermost porch of the temple, I was a faithful, devoted, self-sacrificing worshipper of the goddess; and therefore, because earnest fidelity has ever its crown of reward, it happened to me to make a grand discovery,—a discovery more momentous, it may be, than that of gunpowder or the telescope,—ten million hundred times more worth than the vaunted great achievement of M. le Professeur Morse. Not that its whole import came to me at once. No, Monsieur, it is full twenty years now since the first light of it glimmered upon César Prévost's mind, and he gave ten years of his life to it—ten faithful years—before it was perfect to his satisfaction. Ah, Monsieur, and 'tis more than one year now that I have been what you see me, in consequence of it. Eh, bien! I shall die so,—rightly,—but my discovery shall live forever.