Out of the Hurly-Burly; Or, Life in an Odd CornerClark, Charles Heber
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Out of the Hurly-Burly; Or, Life in an Odd Corner
Clark, Charles Heber
American fiction -- 19th century; Humorous stories
We have a full view of the river from our chamber window, and it is a
magnificent spectacle that greets us as we rise in the morning and fling
the shutters wide open. The sun, in this early summer-time, has already
crept high above the horizon of the pine-covered shore opposite, and has
flooded the unruffled waters with its golden light until they are
transformed for us into a sea of flame. There comes a fleet of grimy
coal schooners moving upward with the tide, their dingy sails hanging
almost listless in the air; now they float, one by one, into the yellow
glory of the sunshine which bars the river from shore to shore. Yonder
is a tiny tug puffing valorously as it tows the great merchantman--home
from what distant land of wonders?--up to the wharves of the great city.
And look! there is another tug-boat going down stream, with a score of
canal-boats moving in huge mass slowly behind it. They come from far up
among the mountains of the Lehigh and the Schuylkill with their burdens
of coal, and they are bound for the Chesapeake. Those men lounging
lazily about upon the decks while the women are getting breakfast ready
spend their lives amid some of the wildest and noblest scenery in the
world. I would rather be a canal-boat captain, Mrs. Adeler, and through
all my existence float calmly and serenely amid those regions of beauty
and delight, without ever knowing what hurry is, than to be the greatest
and busiest of statesmen--that is, if one calling were as respectable
and lucrative as the other.
[Illustration]
That fellow upon the boat at the rear is playing upon his bugle. The
canal-boat bugler is not an artist, but he makes wonderful music
sometimes when he blows a blast up yonder in the heart of Pennsylvania,
and sets the wild echoes flying among the cañons of those mighty hills.
And even now it is not indifferent. Listen! The tones come to us
mellowed by the distance, and so indistinct that they have lost all but
the sweetness which makes them seem so like the sound of
"Horns of Elfland, faintly blowing."
That prosaic tooter floating there upon the river doubtless would be
surprised to learn that he is capable of such a suggestion; but he is.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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