To Cook’s, therefore, upon reaching the station, the writer told the driver of what seemed to be a mongrel public coach, that he wanted to go; but in thoughtlessness, never conceiving that there could be two Cooks, he omitted the Tommy that should have preceded the direction. His surprise was by no means moderate to find, upon reaching his destination, the supposed Quaker host slightly inebriated, dancing a solitary hornpipe to an admiring circle. Thinking perhaps that that was the custom of Jersey Quakers—for the State is exceptional in certain things—he took a glass of bad whiskey with the jovial landlord, made proposals, much to every one’s surprise, to go shooting the day following, and retired early.
Next morning a short walk dissipated all idea of finding game, and having made the discovery that he was still fifteen miles from the proper shooting-ground on the beach, he returned to the house, and in order to enjoy a few hours ere the wagon for his further transportation would be ready, joined a bathing party. It was quite a sociable affair; both sexes, dressed in their bathing clothes—the girls without shoes—crowded down in the bottom of an open wagon. But surely it is not fair to tell how one of the flannel-encased nymphs nearly fell from the wagon, and was caught in the arms of the writer, who had jumped out for the purpose; nor how the rest drove off to leave them; nor how he bore his lovely burden—plastic grace and beauty personified—bravely in pursuit; nor how his foot chanced to trip—accidentally, of course—and they fell and rolled in the sand together. If he would tell, he could not; words do not exist for the purpose. Try, male reader, to carry one hundred and twenty pounds of essential loveliness with only a single flannel garment to protect it; feel it give to your pressure; clasp its exquisite but yielding contour; press it to your heart, and then in an ecstasy roll over and over with it in the sand. Having done so, endeavor to describe the sensation, or forget that particular girl in a life-time.
The road to the beach lay through a village formerly known by the euphonious and distinctive title of Crab Town—a village of a thousand inhabitants. It was evening ere Crab Town was reached, and just beyond, the driver came upon a bevy of female acquaintances. In a moment the suggestion was made that they should ride; after a little demur they accepted, and were crowded in. The stage was not large, but there would have been room if they had been twice as numerous; they filled every seat, and every lap besides.
There are days in one’s lifetime that should be celebrated as anniversaries; and if any gentleman has carried in his arms, and rolled in the sand, one charming Jersey girl in the morning, and has had another equally charming sit on his lap in the evening, he may look upon that day as never likely to repeat itself.
There was a hum of pleasant voices—words like, “Oh! Deb, we should not have got in;” “Why, Mary, we may as well ride—it’s all in our way.” “Now, Lib, don’t say I’m married.” “Well, your husband is a good way off.” But who could attend to what is occurring around him when seated in the dark with a lovely angel in his lap? So situated, the ride appeared very short, and the next mile, which was as far as our delightful freight would go, was passed seemingly in about a minute and a half, decidedly the fastest time on record. At the end of it, on a suggestion from the driver, who lived in that section and knew the country, toll was taken of their rosy lips as passage-money. Jersey is a glorious place.
Passing Charley’s, as he is generally called, the son of the old man, who for years was famous as the first hunter in that land, we turned off beyond, down the beach. The bay between the mainland and the sand-bar, known everywhere as “The Beach,” was narrow, widening slowly as we advanced, until, at the end of our seven miles’ journey, it was nearly three miles across. There was little vegetation beside salt grass and bay-berry bushes; but of the animal kingdom the only representatives—the mosquitoes—were thicker than the mind of man can conceive; they rose in crowds, pursuing us fiercely, covering the horses in an unbroken mass, settling upon ourselves, flying into our eyes, crawling upon our necks, stinging through our clothes, and filling the air. Although small, they were hungry beyond belief, and, following their prey relentlessly, compelled us to fight them off with bushes of bayberry for our lives.
Mosquitoes are found plentifully at our summer watering-places, and still more numerously in the wild woods, grow abundantly in Canada, and are over-plentiful at Lake Superior; but nowhere are they so merciless, fierce, and numerous, as, on occasions, at the New Jersey beach. They are a beautiful little creature, delicate, graceful, and elegant, but obtrusive in their attentions; although the ardent lover was anxious to be bitten by the same mosquito that had bitten his lady-love, that their blood might mingle in the same body.
One good effect they had, however, was to compel the driver to urge on his weary team, and leave him no time to gossip at Jakey’s Tavern, over the beach party that was to be held there next day. A beach party is another delightful institution of the Jerseyites, and consists of a congregation of the youths of both sexes, especially the female, collected from the main shore, and meeting on the beach for a frolic, a dance, and a bath. As it rarely breaks up till daylight, the pleasantest intimacies are sometimes formed, and soft words uttered that could not be wrung from blushing beauty in broad day.
The establishment of the “old man”—the sporting “old man,” not the political one—since he has been gathered to his forefathers, is kept up by his son-in-law, usually known by the abbreviation—Bill. It is not an elegant place; sportsmen do not demand elegance, and willingly sleep, if not in the same room, in chambers that lead into one another; but it is situated within a hundred yards of the best shooting ground, and is as well kept as any other tavern on the beach. Sportsmen do not mind waiting their turn to use the solitary wash basin, drawing water from the hogshead, or wiping on the same towel, but are thankful for good food, and the luxury of a well filled ice-house.
In addition to the general directions heretofore given, it may be well in this connexion to describe more particularly the mode of killing bay-snipe. A number of imitation birds, usually called stools, are cut from wood, and painted to resemble the various species; they have a long stick, or leg, inserted into the lower part of the body, and a sufficient number to constitute a large flock are set up in shallow water, or upon some bar where the birds are accustomed to feed. They are made from thin wood, or even from tin, and are headed various ways so as to show in all directions; the coarsest and least perfect imitations will answer.