The Frontiersmen

And Ichabod began reciting, in a loud voice —

"'America, to every climate known,Spreads her broad bosom to the burning zone;To either pole extends her vast domain,Where varying suns in different summers reign.'"

"That's the way the poem begins, and it fully keeps up its pitch all the way through."

Ralph had some knowledge of the poetical compositions of Freneau, who had really produced some poems, full of a fine, poetic feeling, and who was much beyond the mass of his poetical contemporaries in this country; yet, although he entertained a feeling of respect for the ability and services of the revolutionary poet, he could not share the high degree of admiration which Ichabod entertained for him.

"I'll grant," said Ralph, scarcely knowing how to reply to the irritated Ichabod, "that Shakespeare never did write precisely such a poem; and I will admit that I do not believe he ever could have written such an one."

"I knew you were right at heart, Captain," exclaimed Ichabod, highly elated over his equivocal victory. "Some of his verses have done as much towards bringing down the British, as whole regiments of Continentals could have done. But then, Freneau is only one of a whole circle of poets. The British boast about their old ballads; now, I'll take an even bet, that I can show 'em ballads, written here at home, that will make 'em ashamed. Why, we've had a woman that would eclipse 'em all, to my mind – Mrs. Bradstreet, of whom another poet said:

"'Her breast was a brave palace, a broad street,Where all heroic, ample thoughts did meet.'"

"Mrs. Bradstreet did possess a sweetness of expression," said Ralph; "and, with a higher cultivation, she might have written some fine poetry."

"Might, Captain! Lord bless you, she did! Speaking of the Squire's fishing expedition, what other poet ever said as fine things about fish, for instance, as she did?

"'Ye fish, which in this liquid region 'bide,That for each season have your habitation,Now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide,To unknown coasts to give a visitation.In lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry:So Nature taught, and yet you know not why,You wat'ry folk that know not your felicity.'"

Ralph was much amused at the earnestness of Ichabod, and he did not wish to irritate him by any depreciating criticism upon verses which he considered so extraordinary; but remarked:

"An admiration of poetic productions depends very much upon the quality of our taste. I presume that I have very little taste for such things; but I do think that our ballad poetry has done us good service. Written in a popular style, and sung or recited by men who felt the particular sentiments usually contained in them, these ballads have frequently proved effective in inspiring a proper, natural feeling."

"Them's my sentiments, Captain," said Ichabod; "and I'm glad to see that you're right on that p'int. We've got ballads on all sorts of subjects, from the time of King Philip's war down to these days. Did you ever read the ballad of 'Lovewell's Fight,' Captain? I call it a great poem. After speaking of the valiant Captain Lovewell, it goes on to say:

"'He and his valiant soldiersDid range the woods full wide,And hardships they endured,To quell the Indian's pride."''Twas nigh unto Pigwacket,Upon the eighth of May,They spied a rebel IndianSoon after break of day.He on a bank was walking,Upon a neck of landWhich leads into a pond, asWe're made to understand.'

"It then goes on to describe the fight between the company and the Injins that laid in ambush, and winds up with telling who and how many were killed.

"'Our worthy Captain LovewellAmong them there did die;They killed Lieutenant Robbins,And wounded good young Frye,'

while the rest of the company started for home;

'And braving many dangersAnd hardship in the way,They safe arrived at Dunstable,The thirteenth day of May.'"

"Very good, Ichabod – very good! It is really quite American in style, as well as theme."

"But good as it is, Captain, it isn't a circumstance to some of 'em. There's 'Brave Pawling and the Spy,' and 'Bold Hawthorne,' and 'American Taxation.' That last poem, Captain, has got the true essence of poetry in it. If I was the author of that, I'd die content. The poem goes on to say.

"'The cruel lords of Britain,Who glory in their shame,The project they have hit onThey joyfully proclaim;'Tis what they're striving after,Our rights to take away,And rob us of our charter,In North America.'

"Then 'two mighty speakers, who rule in Piedmont,' propose to King George a plan for taxation of the colonies, to which the king accedes, and says:

"'My subjects shall be taxedIn North AmericaInvested with a warrantMy publicans shall go,The tenth of all their currentThey surely shall bestow:If they indulge rebellion,Or from my precepts stray,I'll send my war battalionTo North America.'

"Then the people of the colonies address King George, and implore him not to tax 'em; and finally say that if he does they'll fight about it, and that

"'We never will knock under,O George, we do not fearThe rattling of your thunder,Nor lightning of your spear;Though rebels you declare us,We're strangers to dismay;Therefore you cannot scare usIn North America.'

"It's a great poem, Captain; it was written by a schoolmaster in Connecticut."

"It is patriotic in tone," replied Ralph; "it has that merit, at least. Are you much acquainted with the old poets of the country?"

"A little, Captain; I've read them all. Besides Mrs. Bradstreet, there's Roger Wolcott, Nathaniel Ward, Mather Byles, Joseph Green, Peter Foulger, old Michael Wigglesworth, and hosts of others. A splendid galaxy, Captain! There's 'The Day of Doom; or, a Poetical Description of the Great and Last Judgment,' by Wigglesworth. It is rather strong on the old New England religion, but as a piece of poetical work, it's really great. Was anything ever more terrible than the description of the final judgment? After the sentence is pronounced, before the condemned,

"'They wring their hands, their caitiff hands,And gnash their teeth in terror;They cry, they war, for anguish sore,And gnaw their tongues for horror;But get away, without delay,Christ pities not your cry:Depart to hell – there ye may yell,And war eternally.'

"We can admire poetry, sometimes, when we don't precisely approve of the sentiments. Did you ever see a more terrific piece of writing than that, Captain?"

"It is full of horrors, I must confess," said Ralph, who was beginning to get weary at the extent of Ichabod's poetical recollections; "but we are near the cottage, and we must now make our preparations for the fishing expedition. Are you anything of a fisherman, Ichabod?"

"I can't say that I am, Captain. With all respect for the taste of other people, it always looked to me like rather poor sport. A man may do that, as he does anything else, for a livelihood; but, for sport, give me a rifle, a sharp eye, and a practised hand. Howsomever, I am with you."

The afternoon seemed to prepare itself expressly for the accommodation of the fishing party. Light clouds covered the sky and a gentle south wind just stirred the face of the water. Sambo had been to the river and caught for bait a quantity of small white fish; and, equipped with hooks and line, Barton, with Ralph and Ichabod, proceeded to the pond, where they entered a boat that had been made by hollowing out two halves of a large log, some three feet in diameter and attaching them together. Barton paddled towards the north-west side, and advanced some fifteen or twenty rods from the shore.

"In this portion of the pond," said he, "the pickerel are most abundant. Perch are found in large quantities near the south-east shore."

They then fastened the bait, which had been kept alive, to the hooks, and threw them overboard. Ichabod was a stranger to this manner of fishing, and he watched the proceedings with an evident degree of interest. Ralph had been accustomed to it in his boyhood and therefore needed no instructions.

Seeing that Ichabod did not understand the course of operations, Barton said to him, "It is necessary, usually, for the purpose of securing the fish, whenever it strikes the bait, to allow it to run with the line for a short distance, when it stops and endeavors to swallow its prey. If it succeeds in doing so, or if it finds itself hooked, it then runs. Then is the time to pull; pull slowly, but steadily, and you have him."

"Hallo! ive got one!" shouted Ichabod; and, mindful of the directions he had just received, he commenced jerking and pulling violently on his line. The fish, which was of good size, and would weigh from two to three pounds, came struggling towards the boat, as if not anxious to make a more familiar acquaintance with the party. "Ah you varmint, – you Seneca!" shouted Ichabod. "Pull will you! I'll show you a trick worth two of that!" He had just got the fish close to the side of the boat, and was eagerly bent over to grasp him, if necessary, when the pickerel, with a desperate struggle, that splashed the water in all directions, broke loose, and darted with the rapidity of light, as it seemed to the eyes of Ichabod, back into the pond. The excitement, and the sudden release of the prisoner, nearly capsized Ichabod. He fell towards the other side of the boat, and and had it not been for Ralph, would have tumbled overboard.

"Hallo, there!" said Barton, laughing, "it's no use going into the water after him; you cannot catch him that way."

Ralph also laughed heartily at the accident; and Ichabod, much disconcerted, quietly fastened another bait, determined to succeed better on the next trial.

Just then, a pickerel of large size darted at Barton's bait, and Barton eased off his line, while the fish ran with it some eight or ten feet, and then commenced its efforts to swallow the captive it had seized. It would have been amusing to one who had no experience in the excitements of that species of fishing, to have Seen the evident anxiety of Barton. To the sportsman, the excitement is of such a degree as almost to obtain the mastery of his calmness, when, with a dart like a flash of sunlight, the pickerel seizes the bait, and flies so suddenly that one can scarcely say he saw it; then comes the violent twitching and jerking of the line, as the monster endeavors in its eagerness to devour its prey. Barton waited patiently, until by the rapid motion of his line through the water, it was apparent that the pickerel was disposed to make off, either entirely satisfied or very much dissatisfied, – when, with a steady pull, he assisted the captive in its escape, and brought it slowly, but struggling violently, back to the boat. In a moment it was lifted in, and the capture was completed. One would have supposed from the appearance of Barton, that he had triumphed in some great encounter in another and more important field of action. But it is true, although perhaps not strange, that we enjoy with as keen a relish, a triumph, when we contend only with trifles, if our success is owing to our own skill or wisdom, as we do, where we triumph over greater obstacles with less skill, but with the assistance of accident.

Barton and Ralph both had extensively "good luck," and the boat began to be loaded with the fish they had taken. Ichabod, who for some time had watched their operations with much interest, had, of late, become silent, and seemed to pay little or no attention to the sport. His first failure, and the success of the others, had disconcerted him somewhat; and his want of luck began to make him think he was engaged in rather dull business.

At an interval of cessation in their sport, which had now become a little like labor, Ralph turned to Ichabod, and said,

"How now, Ichabod – did that pickerel run away with your spirits? Wake up, man; what are you dreaming about?"

"Confound the varmints!" exclaimed Ichabod. "The pervarse cree'turs ain't worth talking about, to say nothing about skirmishing here half a day after 'em. Give me a chance at them deer yonder in the woods, or the wolves I've heered of round here, and we'd have something to talk about, I tell you."

"Well we'll give you a chance," said Barton laughing; "you shall have an opportunity to triumph in your own field. You don't like pickerel-fishing, then?"

"Pickerel-fishing," replied Ichabod gravely; "may be good sport for them as likes it, and have a cunning that way; but you see, I don't look upon it as a reg'lar large business any way. Give me the sports one can unite with business. Now you see, the man that's a good shot on a deer, may be jist as good a shot, providing he has steady nerves, on an Injin; but you can't catch Senecas or Onondagas with this kind of bait. No, I don't like it, Squire." And Ichabod drew back into his former position of listlessness.

"I say, Squire," said he, in a moment, with a twinkle of his eyes, as if he had hit upon a happy idea. "I say, Squire, there's one way you might make this pond profitable. This wasn't put here merely to grow these cussed varmints in. Things has their uses; and the uses of this body of water isn't to cover fish spawn, as any man can see with half an eye.

"Well, Ichabod, any more factory projects?" asked Barton with an attempt at composure.

"There isn't anything to laugh at in that idea," said Ichabod. "You haven't thought of it as much as I have. But I tell you, Squire, you might jist as well build up this country here, and make your own spec. out of it, as to allow some body else to come in here, and do it; for 'twill be done, I tell you. A country like this can't be kept out of all its advantages a great while, any way. Now, you see, this pond, Squire, providing – I say, providing– you can get a proper fall of water from it, as I reckon you can, would make a great chance for a mill privilege, or something of that sort; and you see, Squire, if that could be done, you'd have a supply of water here, that – Creation, what have I got hold on?" and Ichabod commenced tugging violently at his line; for he evidently had caught something that offered much more than ordinary resistance to his efforts. His struggles attracted the attention of both Barton and Ralph, who came to offer him any assistance that might be necessary.

"Slow! steady!" said Barton.

"Yes, yes," shouted Ichabod: "I'll have him now. Ah! here he comes – ugh! what in creation – " and in his astonishment he dropped his line, which began to make off rapidly from the boat.

"A turtle!" exclaimed Barton, "a mud-turtle!" seizing the line, and pulling in the turtle, which would weigh eight or ten pounds. "You have triumphed at last, Jenkins. Nobody else has caught a turtle to-day – and so large a one, too. It is a real victory – another Saratoga," and he laughed so heartily that Ichabod showed some symptoms of getting angry.

"Con-found the victory, Squire," said he, "I'll tell you what, Squire, I don't handle them traps any more. If you want to see slaughter among your bears and wolves, bring 'em on: but I've got through with this cussed business, any how."

"But, without jesting, Jenkins," said Barton, "that turtle is worth more for eating than all the fish we've got here – their meat is delicious; and I prize them highly."

"If that's so, Squire," said Ichabod, "you're entirely welcome to it. The varmint! I've seen 'em down in the settlements: but I never heerd of eating 'em, before; I'd feed 'em to Senecas."

"They would be very thankful for them," said Barton. "It isn't every day they get a turtle like this."

The lines were all taken in, and as they were now sufficiently wearied, the boat was paddled towards the shore, where Sambo was waiting to receive the fish.

"Golly!" said the negro, grinning "who caught dis ere fellar? he! he! he!" pointing towards the turtle.

"I caught that varmint!" replied Ichabod, gravely.

"Guess massa Jenkins let he bait die," said Sambo. "Dose fellars don't bite like pickerel, no how. How massa Jenkins manage?"

"Manage! you black devil," said Ichabod, angrily, "I'll feed you to him, if you ask any more questions."

Ralph and Barton were very much amused at Ichabod's discomfiture, which did not at all pacify him; but the party proceeded towards the cottage, Sambo being careful to keep out of Ichabod's way; but many were the grins which he made at his expense, behind his back. Ichabod gave up the idea of ever being a fisherman; but, as he seemed to be extremely sensitive on that subject, neither Ralph nor Barton saw fit to make any particular allusion to it.

CHAPTER V

"We rustled through the leaves like wind,Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind;By night I heard them on the track,Their whoop came hard upon our back,With their long gallop, which can tireThe hound's deep hate and hunter's fire."MAZEPPA

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, when they returned to the cottage; and as the sun had again made its appearance, and there were no indications of unpleasant weather. Ralph proposed to Miss Barton that they should put in execution a project which she had mentioned, of taking a ride on horseback down the valley.

The horses were at once brought out, by the negro. They were kept for working horses by Barton; but they had sufficient life and activity to make an excursion in that mode pleasant and agreeable.

Sambo, who was very much attached to his mistress, took the liberty of cautioning her to be home again by nightfall, and muttered something about "strange Injins" and wolves. Barton smiled at the fears of the negro; but at the same time intimated that any possible danger might be avoided by an early return.

"As for Indians," said he, "I haven't known many around here lately, and they are all of the friendly sort. The King's Indians, as they are called, have not been here, as I have known, since I have resided here. As for wolves, they are sometimes dangerous, in winter; I have heard of them pursuing people, at that season of the year, when they are particularly voracious; but I never heard of such an instance so early in the season – although it is possible that it might occur. But Ruth knows the country," continued he, "and will know how to avoid any dangers that are incident to it."

"I shall place myself wholly under the control of Miss Barton," said Ralph; "she shall be both guide and guard."

"I can answer for the guide," replied Ruth, "if not for the guard. But I have often taken the short excursion I proposed for to-day; and I will promise to bring home Captain Weston safe and sound."

They mounted their horses, and proceeded slowly down the valley, along a narrow path or road, but of sufficient width to allow two horses to travel abreast. They had proceeded in this manner about a mile, in a southerly direction, with little conversation, except such as was suggested by their ride, when after rounding a hill which ran down nearly to the river, they came in full view of the valley, which here widened out into broad flats, and certainly offered to their observation a high degree of beauty and attraction.

"Beyond the hill which you see yonder," said Ruth, "the valley attains a much greater width. The river, on one side, flows at the base of the eastern hills; and a pleasant stream, which, to translate the Indian appellation, means a "swiftly running creek," flows at the base of the hills on the west. At about a mile and a half below, they unite, and finally empty into the Susquehanna. The excursion I proposed for to-day was only to the spot where the junction of the two streams is formed. I have been there a few times, and I have always been charmed with the beauty of the place."

"The whole valley is beautiful," said Ralph, "beyond any ideas I entertained before visiting it. Such a place will soon be populated. I do not blame Ichabod for his schemes at speculation here; for with the impulse which the country must now receive in population and wealth, so beautiful and advantageous a region as this, will not long be neglected."

They passed around the hill which Ruth had mentioned, where the valley, as she had observed, became of a much greater width, wider than Ralph had yet seen it. It was almost entirely covered with forest; although here and there were places which had been partially cleared by the savages, in former days. The forest in which they were encompassed shut out any very extensive observation of the valley itself, except when they were upon some of the high ground; but enough could be seen to give one a good general idea of its shape and condition. The path had become somewhat more narrow, and they were surrounded by a wilderness of vegetation, which was peculiarly attractive to the eyes of Ralph and his companion.

After about half an hour's further progress, they arrived at the place which had been mentioned by Ruth. The river, just before it reaches the spot where it receives the waters of the creek, makes a sudden turn to the east, for about thirty rods, and then returns to nearly the same point, in a north and south line, at a distance of only fifteen or twenty rods, where the junction is formed. A portion of the waters of the river, however escape from the main channel and flow directly towards the south, making an island two or three acres in extent.

Having arrived at this spot, Ralph and his companion dismounted from their horses, and fastening them to some small trees nearby, they gave themselves up to the contemplation of the fine scenery around them. The sun was then about an hour high, and the golden sunlight flashing upon the variegated foliage of the forest – the calmness which reigned undisturbed around them, the solitude of the wilderness in which they were encompassed, all conspired to give a hue to feelings which both possessed, but which they scarcely dared to breathe to each other.

"I have often dreamed," said Ralph, "of just such a spot as this. I am something of a recluse by nature; but after all, I have some choice as to the place of my isolation."

"I shall expect, then," answered Ruth, smiling, "to hear of Ralph Weston, the hermit, occasionally, from those who may pass by here. Where do you propose to establish your hermitage?"

"In truth, I cannot say," replied Ralph; "but I suppose it will be when I, like the hermits of old, have become sufficiently disgusted with the world, to make me fly from it with hatred; I will not fix the precise time, just now – I will leave it to circumstances. But familiarity with Nature – converse with the solitude of the forest, is the best antidote to the disgust which many persons conceive of society. The man cannot be all bad, who has any relish left in him for the beauties which Nature can unfold to him."

"You are becoming very much of a philosopher, Captain Weston. You shall have another title added to that of hermit. You shall be a philosophical hermit."

"Ruth! you laugh at me! But you must pardon my caprice at the idea of a forest life; for I am not much of a woodsman, you know. But I'll venture to say, after all, that you agree with me."

"Yes," answered Ruth, earnestly, "I do like our new mode of life. We are nearly shut out from the world, – but we have still a thousand pleasures, perhaps the sweeter from our solitary position. We do not merely find a home, we create one. We see broad meadows starting out from the forest, and know that they are ours by the best of titles – a reclamation from the waste of Nature. I have often asked myself whether I would be willing to abandon our present home for the old home in the settlements, and I never yet could answer that I would."

"To a light, vain head," answered Ralph, "such a life would be tiresome; but it seems to me, although how long the feeling would endure, I cannot say – yet it seems to me, that the constant idea of dependence upon a Power beyond and over men, which must be ever present to the minds of those who dwell in the wilderness, would give life a higher and truer aim, than can be attained in society. But familiarity with scenes like these, blunts the mind, perhaps, and the idea is soon lost."

"I believe the remark is true," replied Ruth. "We cannot entirely forego society, without injury to ourselves."

"Yes, perhaps it is so," said Ralph; "we can attain no such marvellous degree of sentiment or independence as wholly to destroy our taste for crowds and social intercourse. I think, after all, that if I were to become a hermit, I should like a few familiar friends to share my hermitage."