Part 3 (1/2)
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 on They 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 taxed In North America
Invested with a warrant My publicans shall go, The tenth of all their current They surely shall bestow: If they indulge rebellion, Or from my precepts stray, I'll send my war battalion To 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 fear The rattling of your thunder, Nor lightning of your spear;
Though rebels you declare us, We're strangers to dismay; Therefore you cannot scare us In 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 p.r.o.nounced, 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 h.e.l.l--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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 quant.i.ty 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 sh.o.r.e.
”In this portion of the pond,” said he, ”the pickerel are most abundant.
Perch are found in large quant.i.ties near the south-east sh.o.r.e.”
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 fis.h.i.+ng, 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 fis.h.i.+ng, 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 a.s.sisted 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 a.s.sistance of accident.