The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 15, No. 87, January, 1865: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 15, No. 87, January, 1865: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
Item, a bird. We were seeking trout,--only to obtain a minnow tricked in
trout-marks. The boat crept slowly up a deep, solemn cove, over which,
on either side, hung craggy and precipitous hills; while at its head was
a slope covered with Liliputian forest, through which came down a broad
brook in a series of snowy terraces. It was a superb day, bright and
bracing,--just bracing enough to set the nerves without urging them, and
exalt one to a sense of vigorous repose. The oars lingered, yet not
lazily, on the way; there seemed time enough for anything. At length we
came, calm, wealthy in leisure, silently cheerful, to a bit of pleasant
yellow beach between rocks. And just as our feet were touching the tawny
sands,--
"The sweetest throat of Solitude
Unbarred her silver gates, and slowly hymned
To the great heart of Silence, till it beat
Response with all its echoes: for from out
That far, immortal orient, wherein
His soul abides 'mid morning skies and dews,
A wood-thrush, angel of the tree-top heaven,
Poured clear his pure soprano through the place,
Deepening the stillness with diviner calm,
That gave to Silence all her inmost heart
In melody."
It was a regal welcome. What is like the note of the wood-thrush?--so
full of royalty and psalm and sabbath! Regal in reserve, however, no
less than utterance, the sovereign songster gave a welcome only, and
then was silent; while a fine piping warbler caught up the theme, and
discoursed upon it with liberal eloquence. The place to hear the song of
the wood-thrush is wherever you can attain to that enjoyment by walking
five or ten miles; the place so to hear it that the hearing shall be, by
sober estimation, among the memorable events of your life, is at the
head of a solemn, sunny cove, on three yards of tawny beach, in the
harbor of Belles Amours, Labrador.
Item, seal-race. The male seals fight with fury in the season of their
rude loves. Two of these had had a battle; the vanquished was fleeing,
the victor after him. They were bounding from the water like dolphins.
For some time I thought them such, though I have seen dolphins by
thousands. It was a surprise to see these leisurely and luxurious
animals spattering the water in such an ecstasy of amative rage.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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