The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 101, March, 1866: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics — John Shaqi
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 101, March, 1866: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 101, March, 1866: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by Cornell University Digital Collections).
THE
ATLANTIC MONTHLY
_A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics._
VOL. XVII.--MARCH, 1866.--NO. CI.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by TICKNOR AND
FIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes moved
to the end of the article.
PASSAGES FROM HAWTHORNE'S NOTE-BOOKS.
III.
Maine, _Thursday, July 20, 1837._--A drive, yesterday afternoon, to a
pond in the vicinity of Augusta, about nine miles off, to fish for white
perch. Remarkables: the steering of the boat through the crooked,
labyrinthine brook, into the open pond,--the man who acted as
pilot,--his talking with B----about politics, the bank, the iron money
of "a king who came to reign, in Greece, over a city called
Sparta,"--his advice to B---- to come amongst the laborers on the
mill-dam, because it stimulated them "to see a man grinning amongst
them." The man took hearty tugs at a bottle of good Scotch whiskey, and
became pretty merry. The fish caught were the yellow perch, which are
not esteemed for eating; the white perch, a beautiful, silvery,
round-backed fish, which bites eagerly, runs about with the line while
being pulled up, makes good sport for the angler, and an admirable dish;
a great chub; and three horned pouts, which swallow the hook into their
lowest entrails. Several dozen fish were taken in an hour or two, and
then we returned to the shop where we had left our horse and wagon, the
pilot very eccentric behind us. It was a small, dingy shop, dimly
lighted by a single inch of candle, faintly disclosing various boxes,
barrels standing on end, articles hanging from the ceiling; the
proprietor at the counter, whereon appear gin and brandy, respectively
contained in a tin pint-measure and an earthenware jug, with two or
three tumblers beside them, out of which nearly all the party drank;
some coming up to the counter frankly, others lingering in the
background, waiting to be pressed, two paying for their own liquor and
withdrawing. B---- treated them twice round. The pilot, after drinking
his brandy, gave a history of our fishing expedition, and how many and
how large fish we caught. B---- making acquaintances and renewing them,
and gaining great credit for liberality and free-heartedness,--two or
three boys looking on and listening to the talk,--the shopkeeper smiling
behind his counter, with the tarnished tin scales beside him,--the inch
of candle burned down almost to extinction. So we got into our wagon,
with the fish, and drove to Robinson's tavern, almost five miles off,
where we supped and passed the night. In the bar-room was a fat old
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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