Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 10, No. 61, November, 1862 by Various

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This is the word of the Lord that came to Joel the son of Pethuel.

"Hear this, ye old men, and give ear, all ye inhabitants of the land!
Hath this been in your days, or even in the days of your fathers?...

"That which the palmer-worm hath left hath the locust eaten; and that
which the locust hath left hath the canker-worm eaten; and that which
the canker-worm hath left hath the caterpillar eaten.

"Awake, ye drunkards, and weep! and howl, all ye drinkers of wine,
because of the new wine! for it is cut off from your mouth.

"For a nation is come up upon my land, strong, and without number, whose
teeth are the teeth of a lion, and he hath the cheek-teeth of a great
lion.

"He hath laid my vine waste, and barked my fig-tree; he hath made it
clean bare, and cast it away; the branches thereof are made white....

"Be ye ashamed, O ye husbandmen! howl, O ye vine-dressers!...

"The vine is dried up, and the fig-tree languisheth; the
pomegranate-tree, the palm-tree also, and the apple-tree, even all the
trees of the field, are withered: because joy is withered away from the
sons of men."

* * * * *

LIFE IN THE OPEN AIR.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "CECIL DREEME" AND "JOHN BRENT."

KATAHDIN AND THE PENOBSCOT.

CHAPTER VII.

MOOSEHEAD.

Moosehead Lake is a little bigger than the Lago di Guarda, and
therefore, according to our American standard, rather more important. It
is not very grand, not very picturesque, but considerably better than
no lake,--a meritorious mean; not pretty and shadowy, like a thousand
lakelets all over the land, nor tame, broad, and sham-oceanic, like the
tanks of Niagara. On the west, near its southern end, is a well-intended
blackness and roughness called Squaw Mountain. The rest on that side is
undistinguished pine woods.

Mount Kinneo is midway up the lake, on the east. It is the show-piece of
the region,--the best they can do for a precipice, and really admirably
done. Kinneo is a solid mass of purple flint rising seven hundred feet
upright from the water. By the side of this block could some Archimedes
appear, armed with a suitable "_pou sto_" and a mallet heavy enough,
he might strike fire to the world. Since percussion-guns and friction
cigar-lighters came in, flint has somewhat lost its value; and Kinneo
is of no practical use at present. We cannot allow inutilities in this
world. Where is the Archimedes? He could make a handsome thing of it by
flashing us off with a spark into a new system of things.

Below this dangerous cliff on the lake-bank is the Kinneo House, where
fishermen and sportsmen may dwell, and kill or catch, as skill or
fortune favors. The historical success of all catchers and killers is
well balanced, since men who cannot master facts are always men of
imagination, and it is as easy for them to invent as for the other class
to do. Boston men haunt Kinneo. For a hero who has not skill enough or
imagination enough to kill a moose stands rather in Nowhere with Boston
fashion. The tameness of that pleasant little capital makes its belles
ardent for tales of wild adventure. New-York women are less exacting; a
few of them, indeed, like a dash of the adventurous in their lover; but
most of them are business-women, fighting their way out of vulgarity
into style, and romance is an interruption.

Kinneo was an old station of Iglesias's, in those days when he was
probing New England for the picturesque. When the steamer landed, he
acted as cicerone, and pointed out to me the main object of
interest thereabouts, the dinner-table. We dined with lumbermen and
moose-hunters, scufflingly.

The moose is the lion of these regions. Near Greenville, a gigantic pair
of moose-horns marks a fork in the road. Thenceforth moose-facts and
moose-legends become the staple of conversation. Moose-meat, combining
the flavor of beefsteak and the white of turtle, appears on the table.
Moose-horns with full explanations, so that the buyer can play the part
of hunter, are for sale. Tame mooselings are exhibited. Sportsmen at
Kinneo can choose a _matinee_ with the trout or a _soiree_ with the
moose.

The chief fact of a moose's person is that pair of strange excrescences,
his horns. Like fronds of tree-fern, like great corals or sea-fans,
these great palmated plates of bone lift themselves from his head,
grand, useless, clumsy. A pair of moose-horns overlooks me as I write;
they weigh twenty pounds, are nearly five feet in spread, on the right
horn are nine developed and two undeveloped antlers, the plates are
sixteen inches broad,--a doughty head-piece.

Every year the great, slow-witted animal must renew his head-gear. He
must lose the deformity, his pride, and cultivate another. In spring,
when the first anemone trembles to the vernal breeze, the moose nods
welcome to the wind, and as he nods feels something rattle on his skull.
He nods again, as Homer sometimes did. Lo! something drops. A horn has
dropped, and he stands a bewildered unicorn. For a few days he steers
wild; in this ill-balanced course his lone horn strikes every tree
on this side as he dodges from that side. The unhappy creature is
staggered, body and mind. In what Jericho of the forest can he hide his
diminished head? He flies frantic. He runs amuck through the woods. Days
pass by in gloom, and then comes despair; another horn falls, and he
becomes defenceless; and not till autumn does his brow bear again its
full honors.

I make no apology for giving a few lines to the great event of a moose's
life. He is the hero of those evergreen-woods,--a hero too little
recognized, except by stealthy assassins, meeting him by midnight for
massacre. No one seems to have viewed him in his dramatic character, as
a forest-monarch enacting every year the tragi-comedy of decoronation
and recoronation.

The Kinneo House is head-quarters for moose-hunters. This summer the
waters of Maine were diluvial, the feeding-grounds were swamped. Of this
we took little note: we were in chase of something certain not to
be drowned; and the higher the deluge, the easier we could float to
Katahdin. After dinner we took the steamboat again for the upper end of
the lake.

It was a day of days for sunny summer sailing. Purple haziness curtained
the dark front of Kinneo,--a delicate haze purpled by this black
promontory, but melting blue like a cloud-fall of cloudless sky upon
loftier distant summits. The lake rippled pleasantly, flashing at every
ripple.

Suddenly, "Katahdin!" said Iglesias.

Yes, there was a dim point, the object of our pilgrimage.

Katahdin,--the more I saw of it, the more grateful I was to the three
powers who enabled me to see it: to Nature for building it, to Iglesias
for guiding me to it, to myself for going.

We sat upon the deck and let Katahdin grow,--and sitting, talked of
mountains, somewhat to this effect:--

Mountains are the best things to be seen. Within the keen outline of a
great peak is packed more of distance, of detail, of light and shade, of
color, of all the qualities of space, than vision can get in any other
way. No one who has not seen mountains knows how far the eye can reach.
Level horizons are within cannon-shot. Mountain horizons not only may be
a hundred miles away, but they lift up a hundred miles at length, to be
seen at a look. Mountains make a background against which blue sky
can be seen; between them and the eye are so many miles of visible
atmosphere, domesticated, brought down to the regions of earth, not
resting overhead, a vagueness and a void. Air, blue in full daylight,
rose and violet at sunset, gray like powdered starlight by night, is
collected and isolated by a mountain, so that the eye can comprehend it
in nearer acquaintance. There is nothing so refined as the outline of
a distant mountain: even a rose-leaf is stiff-edged and harsh in
comparison. Nothing else has that definite indefiniteness, that melting
permanence, that evanescing changelessness. Clouds in vain strive to
imitate it; they are made of slighter stuff; they can be blunt or
ragged, but they cannot have that solid positiveness.

Mountains, too, are very stationary,--always at their post. They are
characters of dignity, not without noble changes of mood; but these
changes are not bewildering, capricious shifts. A mountain can be
studied like a picture; its majesty, its grace can be got by heart.
Purple precipice, blue pyramid, cone or dome of snow, it is a simple
image and a positive thought. It is a delicate fact, first, of
beauty,--then, as you approach, a strong fact of majesty and power.
But even in its cloudy, distant fairness there is a concise, emphatic
reality altogether uncloudlike.

Manly men need the wilderness and the mountain. Katahdin is the best
mountain in the wildest wild to be had on this side the continent. He
looked at us encouragingly over the hills. I saw that he was all that
Iglesias, connoisseur of mountains, had promised, and was content to
wait for the day of meeting.

The steamboat dumped us and our canoe on a wharf at the lake-head about
four o'clock. A wharf promised a settlement, which, however, did not
exist. There was population,--one man and one great ox. Following the
inland-pointing nose of the ox, we saw, penetrating the forest, a wooden
railroad. Ox-locomotive, and no other, befitted such rails. The train
was one great go-cart. We packed our traps upon it, roofed them with our
birch, and, without much ceremony of whistling, moved on. As we started,
so did the steamboat. The link between us and the inhabited world grew
more and more attenuated. Finally it snapped, and we were in the actual
wilderness.

I am sorry to chronicle that Iglesias hereupon turned to the ox and said
impatiently,--

"Now, then, bullgine!"

Why a railroad, even a wooden one, here? For this: the Penobscot at this
point approaches within two and a half miles of Moosehead Lake, and over
this portage supplies are taken conveniently for the lumbermen of an
extensive lumbering country above, along the river.

Corduroy railroad, ox-locomotive, and go-cart train up in the pine woods
were a novelty and a privilege. Our cloven-hoofed engine did not whirr
turbulently along, like a thing of wheels. Slow and sure must the
knock-kneed chewer of cuds step from log to log. Creakingly the wain
followed him, pausing and starting and pausing again with groans of
inertia. A very fat ox was this, protesting every moment against his
employment, where speed, his duty, and sloth, his nature, kept him
bewildered by their rival injunctions. Whenever the engine-driver
stopped to pick a huckleberry, the train, self-braking, stopped also,
and the engine took in fuel from the tall grass that grew between the
sleepers. It was the sensation of sloth at its uttermost.

Iglesias and I, meanwhile, marched along and shot the game of the
country, namely, one _Tetrao Canadensis_, one spruce-partridge, making
in all one bird, quite too pretty to shoot with its red and black
plumage. The spruce-partridge is rather rare in inhabited Maine, and
is malignantly accused of being bitter in flesh, and of feeding on
spruce-buds to make itself distasteful. Our bird we found sweetly
berry-fed. The bitterness, if any, was that we had not a brace.

So, at last, in an hour, after shooting one bird and swallowing six
million berries, for the railroad was a shaft into a mine of them, we
came to the terminus. The chewer of cuds was disconnected, and plodded
off to his stable. The go-cart slid down an inclined plane to the river,
the Penobscot.

We paid quite freely for our brief monopoly of the railroad to the
superintendent, engineer, stoker, poker, switch-tender, brakeman,
baggage-master, and every other official in one. But who would grudge
his tribute to the enterprise that opened this narrow vista through
toward the Hyperboreans, and planted these once not crumbling sleepers
and once not rickety rails, to save the passenger a portage? Here,
at Bullgineville, the pluralist railroad-manager had his cabin and
clearing, ox-engine house and warehouse.

To balance these symbols of advance, we found a station of the
rear-guard of another army. An Indian party of two was encamped on the
bank. The fusty sagamore of this pair was lying wounded; his fusty squaw
tended him tenderly, minding, meanwhile, a very witch-like caldron
of savory fume. No skirmish, with actual war-whoop and sheen of real
scalping-knife, had put this prostrate chieftain here _hors du combat_.
He had shot himself cruelly by accident. So he informed us feebly, in a
muddy, guttural _patois_ of Canadian French. This aboriginal meeting was
of great value; it helped to eliminate the railroad.

CHAPTER VIII.

PENOBSCOT.

It was now five o'clock of an August evening. Our work-day was properly
done. But we were to camp somewhere, "anywhere out of the world" of
railroads. The Penobscot glimmered winningly. Our birch looked wistful
for its own element. Why not marry shallop to stream? Why not yield
to the enticement of this current, fleet and clear, and gain a few
beautiful miles before nightfall? All the world was before us where to
choose our bivouac. We dismounted our birch from the truck, and laid its
lightness upon the stream. Then we became stevedores, stowing cargo.
Sheets of birch-bark served for dunnage. Cancut, in flamboyant shirt,
ballasted the after-part of the craft. For the present, I, in flamboyant
shirt, paddled in the bow, while Iglesias, similarly glowing, sat _a
la Turque_ midships among the traps. Then, with a longing sniff at the
caldron of Soggysampcook, we launched upon the Penobscot.

Upon no sweeter stream was voyager ever launched than this of our
summer-evening sail. There was no worse haste in its more speed; it
went fleetly lingering along its leafy dell. Its current, unripplingly
smooth, but dimpled ever, and wrinkled with the whirls that mark an
underflow deep and shady, bore on our bark. The banks were low and
gently wooded. No Northern forest, rude and gloomy with pines, stood
stiffly and unsympathizingly watching the graceful water, but cheerful
groves and delicate coppices opened in vistas where level sunlight
streamed, and barred the river with light, between belts of lightsome
shadow. We felt no breeze, but knew of one, keeping pace with us, by a
tremor in the birches as it shook them. On we drifted, mile after mile,
languidly over sweet calms. One would seize his paddle, and make our
canoe quiver for a few spasmodic moments. But it seemed needless and
impertinent to toil, when noiselessly and without any show of energy the
water was bearing us on, over rich reflections of illumined cloud and
blue sky, and shadows of feathery birches, bearing us on so quietly that
our passage did not shatter any fair image, but only drew it out upon
the tremors of the water.

So, placid and beautiful as an interview of first love, went on our
first meeting with this Northern river. But water, the feminine element,
is so mobile and impressible that it must protect itself by much that
seems caprice and fickleness. We might be sure that the Penobscot would
not always flow so gently, nor all the way from forests to the sea
conduct our bark without one shiver of panic, where rapids broke noisy
and foaming over rocks that showed their grinding teeth at us.

Sunset now streamed after us down the river. The arbor-vitae along the
banks marked tracery more delicate than any ever wrought by deftest
craftsman in western window of an antique fane. Brighter and richer than
any tints that ever poured through painted oriel flowed the glories of
sunset. Dear, pensive glooms of nightfall drooped from the zenith slowly
down, narrowing twilight to a belt of dying flame. We were aware of the
ever fresh surprise of starlight: the young stars were born again.

Sweet is the charm of starlit sailing where no danger is. And in days
when the Munki Mannakens were foes of the pale-face, one might dash down
rapids by night in the hurry of escape. Now the danger was before, not
pursuing. We must camp before we were hurried into the first "rips"
of the stream, and before night made bush-ranging and camp-duties
difficult.

But these beautiful thickets of birch and alder along the bank, how to
get through them? We must spy out an entrance. Spots lovely and damp,
circles of ferny grass beneath elms offered themselves. At last, as to
patience always, appeared the place of wisest choice. A little stream,
the Ragmuff, entered the Penobscot. "Why Ragmuff?" thought we, insulted.
Just below its mouth two spruces were _propylaea_ to a little glade, our
very spot. We landed. Some hunters had once been there. A skeleton lodge
and frame of poles for drying moose-hides remained.

Like skilful campaigners, we at once distributed ourselves over our
work. Cancut wielded the axe; I the match-box; Iglesias the _batterie de
cuisine_. Ragmuff drifted one troutling and sundry chubby chub down
to nip our hooks. We re-roofed our camp with its old covering of
hemlock-bark, spreading over a light tent-cover we had provided. The
last glow of twilight dulled away; monitory mists hid the stars.

Iglesias, as _chef_, with his two _marmitons_, had, meanwhile, been
preparing supper. It was dark when he, the colorist, saw that fire with
delicate touches of its fine brushes had painted all our viands to
perfection. Then, with the same fire stirred to illumination, and
dashing masterly glows upon landscape and figures, the trio partook of
the supper and named it sublime.

Here follows the _carte_ of the Restaurant Ragmuff,--woodland fare, a
banquet simple, but elegant:--

POISSON.

Truite. Meunier.

ENTREES.

Porc frit au naturel.
Cotelettes d'Elan.

ROTI.

Tetrao Canadensis

DESSERT

Hard-Tack. Fromage.

VINS.

Ragmuff blanc. Penobscot mousseux.
The. Chocolat de Bogota.
Petit verre de Cognac.

At that time I had a temporary quarrel with the frantic nineteenth
century's best friend, tobacco,--and Iglesias, being totally at peace
with himself and the world, never needs anodynes. Cancut, therefore, was
the only cloud-blower.

We two solaced ourselves with scorning civilization from our
vantage-ground. We were beyond fences, away from the clash of
town-clocks, the clink of town-dollars, the hiss of town-scandals. As
soon as one is fairly in camp and has begun to eat with his fingers,
he is free. He and truth are at the bottom of a well,--a hollow,
fire-lighted cylinder of forest. While the manly man of the woods is
breathing Nature like an Amreeta draught, is it anything less than the
_summum bonum_?

"Yet some call American life dull."

"Ay, to dullards!" ejaculated Iglesias.

Moose were said to haunt these regions. Toward midnight our would-be
moose-hunter paddled about up and down, seeking them and finding not.
The waters were too high. Lily-pads were drowned. There were no moose
looming duskily in the shallows, to be done to death at their banquet.
They were up in the pathless woods, browsing on leaves and deappetizing
with bitter bark. Starlight paddling over reflected stars was
enchanting, but somniferous. We gave up our vain quest and glided softly
home,--already we called it home,--toward the faint embers of our fire.
Then all slept, as only wood-men sleep, save when for moments Cancut's
trumpet-tones sounded alarums, and we others awoke to punch and batter
the snorer into silence.

In due time, bird and cricket whistled and chirped the reveille. We
sprang from our lair. We dipped in the river and let its gentle friction
polish us more luxuriously than ever did any hair-gloved polisher of
an Oriental bath. Our joints crackled for themselves as we beat the
current. From bath like this comes no unmanly kief, no sensuous,
slumberous, dreamy indifference, but a nervous, intent, keen, joyous
activity. A day of deeds is before us, and we would be doing.

When we issue from the Penobscot, from our baptism into a new life, we
need no valet for elaborate toilet. Attire is simple, when the woods are
the tiring-room.

When we had taken off the water and put on our clothes, we
simultaneously thought of breakfast. Like a circle of wolves around the
bones of a banquet, the embers of our fire were watching each other over
the ashes; we had but to knock their heads together and fiery fighting
began. The skirmish of the brands boiled our coffee and fried our pork,
and we embarked and shoved off. A thin blue smoke, floating upward, for
an hour or two, marked our bivouac; soon this had gone out, and the
banks and braes of Ragmuff were lonely as if never a biped had trodden
them. Nature drops back to solitude as easily as man to peace;--how
little this fair globe would miss mankind!

The Penobscot was all asteam with morning mist. It was blinding the sun
with a matinal oblation of incense. A crew of the profane should not
interfere with such act of worship. Sacrilege is perilous, whoever be
the God. We were instantly punished for irreverence. The first "rips"
came up-stream under cover of the mist, and took us by surprise. As we
were paddling along gently, we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of
a boiling rapid. Gnashing rocks, with cruel foam upon their lips, sprang
out of the obscure, eager to tear us. Great jaws of ugly blackness
snapped about us as if we were introduced into a coterie of crocodiles.
Symplegades clanged together behind; mighty gulfs, below seducing bends
of smooth water, awaited us before. We were in for it. We spun, whizzed,
dashed, leaped, "cavorted;" we did whatever a birch running the gantlet
of whirlpools and breakers may do, except the fatal finality of a
somerset. That we escaped, and only escaped. We had been only reckless,
not audacious; and therefore peril, not punishment, befell us. The rocks
smote our frail shallop; they did not crush it. Foam and spray dashed in
our faces; solid fluid below the crest did not overwhelm us. There we
were, presently, in water tumultuous, but not frantic. There we were,
three men floating in a birch, not floundering in a maelstrom,--on the
water, not under it,--sprinkled, not drowned,--and in a wild wonder how
we got into it and how we got out of it.

Cancut's paddle guided us through. Unwieldy he may have been in person,
but he could wield his weapon well. And so, by luck and skill, we were
not drowned in the magnificent uproar of the rapid. Success, that
strange stirabout of Providence, accident, and courage, were ours. But
when we came to the next cascading bit, though the mist had now lifted,
we lightened the canoe by two men's avoir-dupois, that it might dance,
and not blunder heavily, might seek the safe shallows, away from the
dangerous bursts of mid-current, and choose passages where Cancut, with
the setting-pole, could let it gently down. So Iglesias and I plunged
through the labyrinthine woods, the stream along.

Not long after our little episode of buffeting, we shot out again upon
smooth water, and soon, for it is never smooth but it is smoothest, upon
a lake, Chesuncook.

CHAPTER IX.

CHESUNCOOK.

Chesuncook is a "bulge" of the Penobscot: so much for its topography. It
is deep in the woods, except that some miles from its opening there is
a lumbering-station, with house and barns. In the wilderness, man makes
for man by a necessity of human instinct. We made for the log-houses.
We found there an ex-barkeeper of a certain well-known New-York cockney
coffee-house, promoted into a frontiersman, but mindful still of
flesh-pots. Poor fellow, he was still prouder that he had once tossed
the foaming cocktail than that he could now fell the forest-monarch.
Mixed drinks were dearer to him than pure air. When we entered the long,
low log-cabin, he was boiling doughnuts, as was to be expected. In
certain regions of America every cook who is not baking pork and beans
is boiling doughnuts, just as in certain other gastronomic quarters
_frijoles_ alternate with _tortillas_.

Doughnuts, like peaches, must be eaten with the dew upon them. Caught as
they come bobbing up in the bubbling pot, I will not say that they are
despicable. Woodsmen and canoemen, competent to pork and beans, can
master also the alternative. The ex-barkeeper was generous with these
brown and glistening langrage-shot, and aimed volley after volley at our
mouths. Nor was he content with giving us our personal fill; into every
crevice of our firkin he packed a pellet of future indigestion. Besides
this result of foraging, we took the hint from a visible cow that milk
might be had. Of this also the ex-barkeeper served us out galore,
sighing that it was not the punch of his metropolitan days. We put our
milk in our tea-pot, and thus, with all the ravages of the past made
good, we launched again upon Chesuncook.

Chesuncook, according to its quality of lake, had no aid to give us with
current. Paddling all a hot August mid-day over slothful water would
be tame, day-laborer's work. But there was a breeze. Good! Come, kind
Zephyr, fill our red blanket-sail! Cancut's blanket in the bow became a
substitute for Cancut's paddle in the stern. We swept along before the
wind, unsteadily, over Lake Chesuncook, at sea in a bowl,--"rolled to
starboard, rolled to larboard," in our keelless craft. Zephyr only
followed us, mild as he was strong, and strong as he was mild. Had he
been puffy, it would have been all over with us. But the breeze only
sang about our way, and shook the water out of sunny calm. Katahdin to
the North, a fair blue pyramid, lifted higher and stooped forward
more imminent, yet still so many leagues away that his features were
undefined, and the gray of his scalp undistinguishable from the green of
his beard of forest. Every mile, however, as we slid drowsily over the
hot lake, proved more and more that we were not befooled,--Iglesias by
memory, and I by anticipation. Katahdin lost nothing by approach, as
some of the grandees do: as it grew bigger, it grew better.

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