Natalie; Or, A Gem Among the Sea-Weeds

by Emma V. Hallett

Gentle reader, pause a little, and let us for a few moments turn our thoughts toward that Island of the sea, upon which it was the fate of our heroine, through the guidance of a divine providence, to find a home in the bosoms of those whose hearts' beatings were of love for our unknown. Yea, love ever encircleth purity.

Properly, this chapter, descriptive of the Island of Nantucket, should have been our first; but had that been the case, alas, for the simple tale of Natalie! How many would have passed it by with but one thought, and that thought invariably,--Nantucket! pooh! a fish story, strikingly embellished with ignorance. And you may indeed discover in the feebleness of my unpretending pen, much that is food for critics; yet give not a thought of ridicule to Nantucket's favored ones, for it is not for me to enlist under her banner of superiority of intellect. To the many questions which I know you have it in your heart to ask, as touching the civilization, etc., of these islanders, I do not reply, as I might be tempted under other circumstances to do, that it would be advisable to procure a passport before landing on those shores, lest one might stand in danger of being harpooned by the natives; but rather let me, in as correct a light as I may, set forth to those who have heretofore known but little of those who inhabit that triangular bit of land in the wide ocean, which, when we were six year olds, we passed over on our maps with the thought, I wonder if they have Sundays there.

Situated nearly one hundred miles, in a south-easterly course from the city of Boston, and about thirty miles from the nearest point of main land, Nantucket lifts her proud head from out the broad Atlantic, whose waters, even when lashed to madness, have been kind to her. And now, on this oppressive July morning, let us throw aside our cares, and come out from our daily round of duties, where we have been scaling with our eyes the tall brick barriers which shut out God's beautiful blue sky and sunshine. Yes, let us off, anywhere, to get one glimpse of Nature. On board the good steamer "Island Home," a two hours' sail carries us over that distance which separates Cape Cod from Nantucket. If you have not passed most of your days among the Connecticut hills, you pay little attention to that "green-eyed monster," who considers it a part of his duty to prepare the uninitiated for the good time coming. Arrived at the bar, which stretches itself across the entrance to the harbor, our first impressions take to themselves the forms of sundry venerable windmills, church spires and towers, representing various orders of architecture; but that which strikes us most is the scarcity of shipping, not more than a dozen vessels lying at the wharves. In former times Nantucket numbered as many whaleships belonging to her port, as did any town on our seaboard. Indeed, she was built up from the produce of the ocean, and carried the palm for years as being first among the American whale fisheries; but her number has dwindled away, till not one-fourth of those homeward-bound ships are destined for the port of Nantucket.

The town, we find, is situated on the northern shore of the island, at the harbor's head. The houses are compact, and most of them built of wood, with little regard to beauty; though some few residences there are, of modern style, which do credit to their designers; but the greater number speak only of antiquity, with their shingled sides; and you will rarely see a house that has not a "walk" upon its roof, with which they could by no means dispense, as in case of ship-wreck near the island, the roofs of the whole town will be alive with men, women, and children, spyglass in hand. Besides the town there are but one or two small villages, "Polpis," and the far-famed "Siaconset," or "Sconset," as it is usually termed,--numbering some four dozen houses. This village is seven and one-half miles from the town, affording a delightful place of recreation for families from town, who, as the summer holidays come round, harness up old Dobbin, and prepare for a six weeks' "siesta." If, by reason of the great financial pressure, you find you have not sufficient pocket-money to take you for a short tour to Europe, come to "Sconset;" it is a glorious place! take a stroll along that grand old beach, and watch the moon rise from out the ocean; then go to your comfortable seven-by-nine lodgings, which seems like a palace, draw the comfortable rug about you, and fall asleep, with old Ocean for a lullaby, to dream (if your waking hours are fortunately of that bent) of some old deserted castle, "Salem witchcraft," or a lone "Grace Pool," attendant within the attic's most remote recesses.

The face of the island is level, so much so that the flat, bare commons resemble somewhat our western prairies; and with the exception of the cliffs at the north, and Sancoty Head, there are but few slight elevations. Owing to the peculiar shape of the island, its two arms stretching far out on either side, it does not appear to be as large as it really is,--being about sixteen miles long, and four wide, affording sufficient elbow room, however, for its eight thousand inhabitants. The soil is sandy, but is cultivated to some extent; and though they can boast of no extensive forests, yet you may occasionally meet with an old friend in the way of a noble elm, or the pensive weeping willow. The culture of fruit trees, also, is receiving much attention of later years, and as widely as refinement must be separated from the islanders, to be in keeping with your views, their love for the sweet spring flowers knows no bounds.

In your walks of curiosity about town, you meet with a great many of the denomination termed Friends, or Quakers, and as you pass them you cannot refrain from giving them the inside walk, for their very garb is of humility; and as you look into the placid face of some matron, you feel like uncovering yourself, for you can see the innocence looking out of her eyes. You are curious to know whither so many are wending their way, and meeting a sailor-boy, he tells you it is "fifth day," and if you follow in the wake of the "slick bonnets," they will pilot you to their nearest light-house; but precious little light you will get unless the spirit move some of them to pick up the wick. You move on with the rest till you come to their house of worship, which appears as humble as those who enter its doors. As you contrast the plainness on all sides with the richly decorated edifice in which you have been accustomed to worship, you try to smile a smile of contempt at the scene, but cannot, for you feel that the spirit of Christ is in their midst; and though not a word is spoken during the hour and a half, yet you feel that the silent worship which went up to Heaven, was heard by Him who answers prayer. As a signal for dispersing, the elders who occupy the "rising seats," arise and shake hands, and you go your way with those silent ones, feeling that their worship was acceptable to God. The Quakers of Nantucket are rapidly diminishing in number. Formerly two-thirds, perhaps, of the population, were of the Society of Friends, but now not one-third are of that denomination. As their children come up, they are not true to the faith, as were their fathers, and they put off the plain garb for the fashions of the day. A Quaker in Nantucket will in time come to be a great curiosity. Their places will, we fear, be filled by none more upright. Heaven bless them!

Nantucket of the present is not Nantucket of the past. Her quaint, old-timeness has given place to customs and manners more in accordance with things common-place. Yet her originality has not entirely forsaken her; she has a character even now, peculiar to herself. The wild waves come tumbling in, their glad shouts ringing through the midnight stillness with the same zest as of yore; and the same starry skies, which looked down on the fair maiden of a century ago, still bend over her children's children, as they tread along life's rugged way. Occasionally you may meet with one who has long since passed the meridian of life, one, perhaps, who has never been off of the island of his birth; and he will tell you of the Nantucket of the past, before her peaceful shores had been invaded by the stranger; when they might lay them down to sleep, without thought of bolt or bar, save old ocean's faithful bands. You will learn of Nantucket from the beginning down to the present time. Then the island was big with prosperity. Her sons were not obliged to leave their homes for a five years' voyage, in search of the monster from which they gained their chief maintenance, for there were then good fishing grounds near the shore, and often the whale might be seen from their little island, spouting off in the distance; and their ships came proudly bearing down to the bar, laden heavily with the good sperm oil, and all hearts were made lighter and each purse heavier, with every new arrival of good fortune; as if they had been one great family, each one smiling on another's prosperity. "But now,"--and the face of the narrator is less joyous as he turns from then to now,--"things are not what they were. Our island is becoming like what they tell me the world at large is." And the old man will re-light his pipe, and with a sad smile he will give you the names of his ancestors, from his great "Grand-'ther" down to more modern times, when his fifth cousin Obed was a large ship-owner. Ah! treat such of other days with kindness, for the style of that day will never come again; their great hearts of brotherly love are not of this generation, yet they have left an impress upon those well-loved shores that can never be entirely erased. Those foot-prints of long ago, combined with the peculiarities which will ever dwell with these children of the sea, are attractions which insure to the stranger on his first visit, visions of many a happy hour in the future; and he will long for the season to return which shall liberate so many of the city doomed artificials to a few weeks' intercourse with nature.

Awakened at early dawn by the sailor's merry "yo, ho," coming up from the waters with the sun, you turn your eyes seaward, and what a glorious sight is before you! As far as the eye can reach, water, blue, rolling water, tinged with rising sunlight in its morning purity; the night-bird folds her wings, which she has laved in the white sea-foam, softening the sigh of the breakers to the ear of those who slumbered; the white sails bow their heads, while the old tars wonder what makes them so happy. With these pleasant sunrise impressions you go forth into the day with more lenient views towards the "land of whales," sniffing the salt air with a real gusto.

Glancing up the street, you descry an object in the distance which much resembles a travelling dry-goods merchant, with the many fancy streamers flying in the breeze; but as it draws nearer, you look around in astonishment for "Barnum," fully persuaded if that worthy is not on the ground, he has mistaken his calling for once. The object in question is no less than a common two-wheeled horse-cart, such as are used to do our heavy carting, except this is on springs, and of a lighter build; in the vehicle are some half dozen ladies, standing, their only support being short ropes attached to the sides, which, however, are seldom used, except by those unaccustomed to this kind of exercise, and in this position they ride with the greatest ease, seldom losing their balance, even when going at full speed.

Thoroughly initiated, and having seen most of the lions of the place, you find yourself becoming more and more attached, forget that you have ever thought of the island as anything but attractive. Your one week has become the length of four, and the letters to anxious friends at home have been characteristic of briefness, unwilling to steal a moment's time from the enjoyment which will furnish a topic for the unemployed hours of longer days to come. Of the many excursions which have made short the hours of your sojourn here, I will not enter into detail; suffice it to say, you have been disappointed in Nantucket and its inhabitants. You have made many firm friends, the memory of whom will stir the tear of unselfish love, as you number them over, one by one, in the future. They will never be forgotten. You have found Nantucket is not merely an isolated place, where oil is manufactured; where the people only work to eat, and eat to work. [Though as some have suggested, a carriage drive connecting Nantucket with the Continent would be a great modern improvement]. As one has quaintly expressed, in a little poem entitled "An Old Story:"