Finally, your humble servant, "the Elder," who trusts that the reader remembers meeting him before, and has somewhat, at least, of his own pleasure in renewing the acquaintance.
The morning of June twelfth, our second Sunday on board, was one to remain memorable among mornings for beauty,—for these were halcyon days, and Nature could not change for a moment from her mood. It was nowise odd or strange, no Nubian of Thibetan beauty, no three-faced Hindoo divinity, but a regular Grecian-featured Apollo, amber in forehead, fitly arrayed, coming to a world worthy of him. Cape-Breton Isle was a strip of denser sky on the southeast horizon; on the west, far away, rose Entry Island, one of the Magdalen group, deliciously ruddy and Mediterranean-looking, seen through the lovely, ethereal, purple haze; while others of the group appeared farther away, one of them, long and low, an island of absolute gold, polished gold, splendid as gold under sunshine can be. The light wind bore us on so serenely as to give the sense of calm more than calm itself; while the music of our motion through the water, that incomparable barytone, rendered this calm into sound.
It was the very Sabbath and Sunday of Nature,—her Sabbath of rest, and her Sunday of joy. I was surprised to find myself not surprised by this wonderful morning. It seemed not new nor foreign, but suggested some divine old-time familiarity and fellowship. It looked me in the eyes out of its immortal hilarity and peace, took me by the hand, and said, "Forever!" And in that "Forever" spoke to me an infinite remembrance and an infinite hope.
At eleven A. M. we drew near to Gannet Rocks. These are three in number, all high, one quite small and conical, a second somewhat larger, the third, which is the home of gannets, several acres in extent. They were all ruddy, being of red sandstone; and the smallest, in that warm light, was actual carmine. The largest rises with precipitous sides, which in parts beetle far over the sea, to a height of four hundred feet, having above a surface nearly level, but sloping gently to the south. By zigzag scrambling one may at a particular point climb to this surface; but it is a hard climb, and a landing can be effected only in extreme calm.
At the distance of two miles or more, on our approach, the surface was visible, owing to its slight southward slope. It had precisely the appearance of being deeply covered with snow, save in one part, about a fourth of its area, where it was bright green. We knew that this snow was no other than the female gannets, crowded together in the act of sitting on their eggs; but by no inspection with powerful glasses could we discern a single point where the rock appeared between them. They were literally packed together, every inch of room being used. Six or eight acres of them!
But where are the males? There is no apparent room for them on the rock. Just as this question occurred to me, some one cried out, "Look in the air! look in the air above the rock!" I lifted my glass, and there they were, a veritable cloud. They reminded me, saving the color, of a cloud of midges which astonished me one summer evening when I was a boy,—so thick that you could not see through them. Whether these ever alight I cannot say. One thing is certain: they cannot all, nor any considerable portion of them, alight on this rock together,—unless, indeed, one should roost on another's back.
But the gannet is not particular about alighting. It is just as cheap flying, he thinks. His true home, like that of the frigate-bird and one or two others, is the air. This is indicated in his structure. The skin is not, as in most animals, strictly connected with the flesh, but is attached by separate elastic fibres; and, like the frigate-bird, it can force in under the skin, and into various cellular passages in the body, air which is rarefied by its animal heat, and contributes greatly to its buoyancy.
The gannet is a handsome bird, larger by measurement, though not heavier, than the largest gulls,—snow-white, save the outer third of the wing, which is jet-black,—his wings long and sharp,—his motion in the air not rapid, but singularly home-like and easy. He is unable to rise from level ground, but must launch himself from a height, probably owing to his shortness and inelasticity of leg and length of wing; nor, indeed, can he rise from the water, unless somewhat assisted by its motion. And this suggests a beautiful provision of Nature: the wings of all true swimmers and divers are short and-round, to facilitate their ascent from the water.
If surprised on land, the gannet neither attempts to fly nor offers resistance, conscious of helplessness; but when attacked in the water, where he is more at home, he will fight fiercely. Nuttall, with grange contradiction, says, that, though web-footed, they do not swim,—yet elsewhere speaks of looking down from a cliff and seeing them "swimming and chasing their prey." I cannot testify.