Tales of the Chesapeake.

by George Alfred Townsend.

INTRODUCTION.

MOTHERNOOK.

THE EASTERN Sh.o.r.e OF MARYLAND.

One day, worn out with head and pen, And the debate of public men, I said aloud, "Oh! if there were Some place to make me young awhile, I would go there, I would go there, And if it were a many a mile!"

Then something cried--perhaps my map, That not in vain I oft invoke-- "Go seek again your mother's lap, The dear old soil that gave you sap, And see the land of Pocomoke!"

A sense of shame that never yet My foot on that old sh.o.r.e was set, Though prodigal in wandering, Arose; and with a tingled cheek, Like some late wild duck on the wing, I started down the Chesapeake.

The morning sunlight, silvery calm, From basking sh.o.r.es of woodland broke, And capes and inlets breathing balm, And lovely islands clothed in palm, Closed round the sound of Pocomoke.

The pungy boats at anchor swing, The long canoes were oystering, And moving barges played the seine Along the beaches of Tangiers; I heard the British drums again As in their predatory years, When Kedge's Straits the Tories swept, And Ross's camp-fires hid in smoke.

They plundered all the coasts except The camp the Island Parson kept For praying men of Pocomoke.

And when we thread in quaint intrigue Onanc.o.c.k Creek and Pungoteague, The world and wars behind us stop.

On G.o.d's frontiers we seem to be As at Rehoboth wharf we drop, And see the Kirk of Mackemie: The first he was to teach the creed The rugged Scotch will ne'er revoke; His slaves he made to work and read, Nor powers Episcopal to heed, That held the glebes on Pocomoke.

But quiet nooks like these unman The grim predestinarian, Whose soul expands to mountain views; And Wesley's tenets, like a tide, These level sh.o.r.es with love suffuse, Where'er his patient preachers ride.

The landscape quivered with the swells And felt the steamer's paddle stroke, That tossed the hollow gum-tree sh.e.l.ls, As if some puffing craft of h.e.l.l's The fisher chased in Pocomoke.

Anon the river spreads to coves, And in the tides grow giant groves.

The water shines like ebony, And odors resinous ascend From many an old balsamic tree, Whose roots the terrapin befriend; The great ball cypress, fringed with beard, Presides above the water oak, As doth its shingles, well revered, O'er many a happy home endeared To thousands far from Pocomoke.

And solemn hemlocks drink the dew, Like that old Socrates they slew; The piny forests moan and moan, And in the marshy splutter docks, As if they grazed on sky alone, Rove airily the herds of ox.

Then, like a narrow strait of light, The banks draw close, the long trees yoke, And strong old manses on the height Stand overhead, as to invite To good old cheer on Pocomoke.

And cunning baskets midstream lie To trap the perch that gambol by; In coves of creek the saw-mills sing, And trim the spar and hew the mast; And the gaunt loons dart on the wing, To see the steamer looming past.

Now timber sh.o.r.es and ma.s.sive piles Repel our hull with friendly stroke, And guide us up the long defiles, Till after many fairy miles We reach the head of Pocomoke.

Is it Snow Hill that greets me back To this old loamy _cul-de-sac_?

Spread on the level river sh.o.r.e, Beneath the bending willow-trees And speckled trunks of sycamore, All moist with airs of rival seas?

Are these old men who gravely bow, As if a stranger all awoke, The same who heard my parents vow, --Ah well! in simpler days than now-- To love and serve by Pocomoke?

Does Chincoteague as then produce These rugged ponies, lean and spruce?

Are these the steers of Accomac That do the negro's drone obey?

The things of childhood all come back: The wonder tales of mother day!

The jail, the inn, the ivy vines That yon old English churchside cloak, Wherein we read the stately lines Of Addison, writ in his signs, Above the dead of Pocomoke.

The world in this old nook may peep, And think it listless and asleep; But I have seen the world enough To think its grandeur something dull.

And here were men of sterling stuff, In their own era wonderful: Young Luther Martin's wayward race, And William Winder's core of oak, The lion heart of Samuel Chase, And great Decatur's royal face, And Henry Wise of Pocomoke.

When we have raged our little part, And weary out of strife and art, Oh! could we bring to these still sh.o.r.es The peace they have who harbor here, And rest upon our echoing oars, And float adown this tranquil sphere, Then might yon stars shine down on me, With all the hope those lovers spoke, Who walked these tranquil streets I see And thought G.o.d's love nowhere so free Nor life so good as Pocomoke.

KING OF CHINCOTEAGUE.

The night before Christmas, frosty moonlight, the outcast preacher came down to the island sh.o.r.e and raised his hands to the stars.

"O G.o.d! whose word I so long preached in meekness and sincerity," he cried, "have mercy on my child and its mother, who are poor as were Thine own this morning, eighteen hundred and forty years ago!"

The moonlight scarcely fretted the soft expanse of Chincoteague Bay.

There seemed a slender hand of silver reaching down from the sky to tremble on the long chords of the water, lying there in light and shade, like a harp. The drowsy dash of the low surf on the bar beyond the inlet was harsh to this still and shallow haven for wreckers and oystermen. It was very far from any busy city or hive of men, between the ocean and the sandy peninsula of Maryland.

But no land is so remote that it may not have its banished men. The outcast preacher had committed the one deadly sin acknowledged amongst those wild wreckers and watermen. It was not that he had knocked a drowning man in the head, nor shown a false signal along the sh.o.r.e to decoy a vessel into the breakers, nor darkened the lighthouse lamp.

These things had been done, but not by him.

He had married out of his race. His wife was crossed with despised blood.

"What do you seek, preacher?" exclaimed a gruff, hard voice. "Has the Canaanite woman driven you out from your hut this sharp weather, in the night?"

"No," answered the outcast preacher. "My heart has sent me forth to beg the service of your oyster-tongs, that I may dip a peck of oysters from the cove. We are almost starved."

"And rightly starved, O psalm-singer! You were doing well. Preaching, ha! ha! Preaching the miracle of the G.o.d in the manger, the baby of the maid. You prayed and travelled for the good of Christians. The time came when you practised that gospel. You married the daughter of a slave. Then they cast you off. They outlawed you. You were made meaner, Levin Purnell, than the Jew of Chincoteague!"

The speaker was a bearded, swarthy, low-set man, who looked out from the cabin of a pungy boat. His words rang in the cold air like dropping icicles articulate.

"I know you, Issachar," exclaimed the outcast preacher. "They say that you are hard and avaricious. Your people were bond slaves once to every nation. This is the birth night of my faith. In the name of Joseph, who fed your brethren when they were starving, with their father, for corn, give me a few oysters, that we may live, and not die!"

The Jew felt the supplication. He was reminded of Christmas eve. The poorest family on Chincoteague had bought his liquor that night for a carouse, or brought from the distant court-house town something for the children's stockings. Before him was one whose service had been that powerful religion, shivering in the light of its natal star on the loneliest sea-sh.o.r.e of the Atlantic. He had harmed no man, yet all shunned him, because he had loved, and honored his love with a religious rite, instead of profaning it, like others of his race.

"Take my tongs," replied the Jew. "Dip yonder! It will be your only Christmas gift."

"Peace to thee on earth and good-will to thee from men!" answered the outcast.

The preacher raised the long-handled rakes, spread the handles, and dropped them into the Sound. They gave from the bottom a dull, ringing tingle along their shafts. He strove to lift them with their weight of oysters, but his famished strength was insufficient.

"I am very weak and faint," he said. "Oh, help me, for the pity of G.o.d!"

The Jew came to his relief doggedly. The Jew was a powerful, bow-legged man, but with all his strength he could scarcely raise the burden.

"By Abraham!" he muttered, "they are oysters of lead. They will neither let go nor rise."

He finally rolled upon the deck a single object. It broke apart as it fell. The moonlight, released by his humped shadow, fell upon something sparkling, at which he leaped with a sudden thirst, and cried:

"Gold! Jewels! They are mine."

It was an iron casket, old and rusty, that he had raised. Within it, partly rusted to the case, the precious l.u.s.tre to which he had devoted his life flashed out to the o'erspread arch of night, sown thick with star-dust. A furious strength was added to his body. He broke the object from the casket and held it up to eyes of increased wonder and awe. Then, with an oath, he would have plunged it back into the sea.

The outcast preacher interposed.