The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, May 1844

Discipula. I suppose the picture will keep till we come back. Let us go ashore, and wander around in the woods, and find romantic grottoes, and weave flower-wreaths, and build castles in the air.

Piscator. And half a mile inland, you can see its summit from here, is a hill that commands a vast tract of lake and woodland.

Discipula. Yes, yes; let us go!

Piscator. Well, scholar, here we are again, after our long tramp. You see I am a better land-pilot than you just now took me to be; for I have brought us out to the right spot; more by token, yonder is the boat, safe and sound. I am afraid you are fatigued with our long travels?

Discipula. Not much; but I would like to sit down on the green carpet, under this shade, for a few minutes.

Piscator. It must be, at the least, four of the clock; and although your nature, my fair young lady, is probably too ethereal to think of such homely matters, I do not profess mine to be such, and am ready to acknowledge, that a little dinner would not be unacceptable.

Discipula. Unacceptable? No; but where are we to get it?

Piscator. I always bring with me, on my excursions, a hand-basket, containing–

Discipula. Why in the world!—why didn’t you let me know that before? Let us have it as quick as possible!

Piscator. It is in the boat, and if you will remain a moment, I will bring it up here.

Discipula. Oh yes, do! And be quick, my good master!—as quick as you can!

Piscator. Nimble as any page, that waits on lady bright. Here we have the provisions; and if we could manage to find something for a table-cover, we might dispense with knives and– Right, scholar, put your hand into the basket and help yourself.

Discipula. Ham sandwich! Oh, Mr. Piscator, this is good! Is there enough of it?

Piscator. Enough for us two; and therefore you need not fear to help yourself heartily, as I am glad to see that you are not. Never was sumptuous feast to an epicure on gala-day better than my simple fare to me on this beach, after a morning’s sail and ramble.

Discipula. Most excellent! I’ll come out here every time I can get a chance, for the sake of dining with you under the old beech tree.

Piscator. It brings to my mind the story of the king, who, after the chase, took some bread and water at the hut of a woodsman; which, as it is no doubt well known, I shall not repeat unto you. But the bottom of the basket begins to appear. What! done already? Good despatch! And now, scholar, we will immediately to our sport, for we have no time to waste.

Discipula. Yes, yes, immediately to work; I long to try my hand. Here’s the boat; I should think it would have got tired waiting so long for us. But it looks very patient.

Piscator. You may get in, while I loose, and shove off. There appears to be a sharp breeze blowing on the lake without, yet our pond is as unruffled as when we left it. We will return to the same spot we were in before, and cast out our lines.

Discipula. Is this my rod? Fix the bait for me skilfully, and I’ll catch them.

Piscator. I cannot promise you great success at first, considering your inexperience–

Discipula. Oh, I’m going to catch an hundred!

Piscator. I hope you may; certainly—I hope you will; and you can only try. There, your fly is fastened to the hook as well as my art is able. Come, and sit on this side, and I will give you some instructions how to use it. First, see that the line is clear of the rod; then give it one swing round your head; so—and cast it quickly but softly, as far from you as you can on the water. Neatly done! Now draw it slowly along the surface, and you shall presently see a fish rise at it. Be more moderate; you draw it too rapidly. Ha! there it goes under! Wait till you feel him pulling on the line; now give him a little jerk to the right; there you have him, fairly hooked! You must be careful, or you’ll lose him yet. No; he’s not very heavy, and you may raise him strait out of the water, and land him in the boat; so!

Discipula. Ah, my master, will you tell me that I can’t catch fish? Poor little fish! Oh, but he’s a small one: take him off, master, and put him into the hold. I hunt for nobler game.

Piscator. Not a good thought, not a good thought for an angler. Hunt for nobler game, if you like; but a fisherwoman must not despise the smallest that comes to her net. Every thing counts.

Discipula. Despise? No; oh no! I would like to catch fifty just such; that is, if there are no larger ones to angle for.

Piscator. Well, your bait is set again. Cast out as before, and I wish you better luck.

Discipula. Now I am going to catch a large one—a foot long. But, Mr. Piscator, why do you not use your line?

Piscator. I will not interfere with your sport; and beside, I may want to give you advice how to manage yours. It is not, in general, a good plan to let the fish see you when you are angling; they are apt to be frightened away. However, in this case, I shall say nothing against it; because if they have an eye for beauty, as is commonly believed, your showing yourself should have a contrary effect. In truth, the influence of beauty is much to be marvelled at. I remember myself when I was young, and had not yet learned their vanity, how easy I was to be led away and bewitched by a fair face and a sparkling eye. That was some time ago; you draw your fly too fast; it was some years ago; and yet I am fain to confess, that even now, in nothing do I take more pleasure, than in looking on a ruddy cheek, a polished brow, the long lashes of a soft blue eye, and upon heavy folds of auburn hair; and it is for this reason that I have placed you opposite to me now.

Discipula. Why, Mr. Piscator! Did you mean that for a compliment?

Piscator. Certainly no. I seldom speak but what I think, for flattery I like neither to give nor receive. Ah, yes; there are witches in the world yet. And their witchcraft consists not in magic filters, and potent herbs gathered at midnight under the full moon; far more subtle and powerful is it. Like the poisons of eastern countries, it is communicated by a touch, by a look, by the breath of a word. This is the witchcraft that they use; therewith lure they men to commit folly. It would seem to be their chief delight, their main occupation. But I am willing to believe that you are not so evil-minded; and that when you bewitch men, it is not because you love to do it, but that it is altogether involuntary.

Discipula. Oh, of course, altogether involuntary. If I had my way, I never would cause a single flutter in any body’s breast—not I. But you see how it is, I can’t help it, and therefore it is not my fault. These fish do not bite well. There is one, he will weigh four pounds, that has been playing round and round the hook, but won’t touch it. Haven’t you got some kind of sweet smelling oil or perfume to scent the bait with?

Piscator. I have some lavender-leaves, and if you will draw up the line, I will rub the fly over with them, for fish love the smell of lavender. Try him with that. Ah, I see him—a respectable fish. He is coming up toward the hook; I think he will take it.

Discipula. He stops and eyes it, as though he half suspected that it would not be pleasant to the taste, for all its fair looks. But I’ll have him, in spite of his wits. You scrutinize too closely, Sir Pike! You had better take it at once, without useless inspection. What a noble fellow! How gracefully he moves through the water! I will make it float carelessly away from him, dancing on the silver surface, as though it had just fallen fresh from Heaven; and beside, distance lends enchantment. Ha! see him make a dive at it! There you have it, Sir! and there I have you!

Piscator. Take care, or you’ll be over! Hold hard, or he’ll have you too! Upon my word, I was afraid you would go overboard! You should not, in your eagerness, lean out over the water so far. But you have got the better of him, and now pull him into the boat and let me take him off.

Discipula. I came near losing my balance; I thought I was gone! Lucky escape!—but my heart beats yet.

Piscator. A fine fish. He has swallowed the bait whole; your large fish always do. O! I don’t know as I can take it out, without hurting him.

Discipula. Poor fish! He does not look quite so spruce and independent as he did a little while ago. Did your mouth water for that tempting fly. It will never water again! What deep sighs heave his little breast! but they will soon be over. Fix the bait, Mr. Piscator, and rub some more lavender on it. I’ll catch another, in less than a minute.

Piscator. It is done already. And this time, do not lean over so far, or you will be in danger of being pulled in, by some fish of greater strength than usual. Really, I think you are a good angler; you seem to possess the skill by intuition. Is it not fine sport? I see by the increased flush and light of your countenance, that you are of the same opinion. It is truly a gentle, a feminine sport.

Discipula. There is one with the beautifulest eyes, and covered all over with gold and silver. But he is exceedingly shy. Come, Sir, if you are so distant, I shall have to approach you myself. I desire a nearer acquaintance with your beautiful eyes, and your gold and silver scales. Oh! if you move off in that direction, I shall retire in this! Ah, you’ve thought better of it, and are coming back. I knew you would. Observe, Mr. Piscator, how he turns round and hesitates and doubts what to do. There is no use in his deliberating; it is inevitable; he has got to do it. Now he turns back. He seems to have made up his mind that he must have it at all hazards. And see him shut his eyes and make a dash. I am afraid he finds it unpalatable! Too rash! too rash! You should have considered better! Take him off, master; he is nothing very great, after all.

Piscator. I see a large one, lying here at the left, deep in the water; of the kind which we call sucker. It is his nature to lie perfectly still as though asleep, and not to move till he is touched. Reach here the hook, while I fasten some pieces of lead to it, enough to sink it; and then I will tell you how to hook him.

Discipula. I see! I know! I can do it myself, I will let the bait sink gently down into the water, a little forward of him, thus. Ah, it fell right on his back! He must be asleep, for he doesn’t stir, nor seem to notice it. Now then, a little forward of him; and so, slowly, softly, float up toward his nose. He appears to be inspecting the fly; he sleeps with his mouth wide open; as a natural history philosopher might examine a butterfly; and since it is so closely presented, suppose you try the sense of taste too, Sir! It is pleasant to the eye, you will find it also good for food, and to be desired to make one wise. Allow it to fall imperceptibly into your mouth; nay, you cannot judge of its merits from a half trial, like that; it must be taken entirely in. Don’t exert yourself, in the least; another inspiration, and you are possessed. Ha! is it not good?—is it not sweet? He must be very fond of it, he holds on to it so hard! Astonished fish! he wakes up, and opens his eyes with wonder; there is more in it than he dreamed of! Strait up to the light here, and show your agitated countenance. Now please to open your lips, and disclose the cause of all your sorrows, while kind Mr. Piscator extracts it.

Piscator. Well hooked! Indeed, scholar, it was well done of you. But the heavens are becoming overcast; it threatens storm. Would it not be wise to set out on our return?

Discipula. Oh no, no! I can’t think of going yet? ‘Wise!’ It seems to me that it would be very foolish, while the lake contains so many more fish as good as any that we have already caught.

Piscator. You do not expect to take them all?

Discipula. All in this place; what should hinder?

Piscator. They will not bite for ever in the same place. They are a cunning animal, and get frightened.

Discipula. Then let us remove to another spot.

Piscator. That we might do, if there were time; but the sun is entirely hidden by clouds, and is near his going down. We shall presently have a thunder-storm. And then a stiff breeze from the south, which will waft us speedily toward our landing place; had we not better begin to think of leaving?

Discipula. Wait till I catch one fish more; I had a nibble just then.

Piscator. You should handle your rod more gently. The wind blows up fresher and fresher; it will be dark as pitch too, when night fairly comes on. Shall we not spread our sails, and speed merrily homeward?

Discipula. Well, as you will, master; though really I don’t see any occasion for all this hurry. Look at that fish! He rose almost to the surface after my hook, and yet wouldn’t take it. Oh, my poor fly! my poor bait! See it, master! All faded and worn and torn, no painting or patching can renew its comeliness! And there sticks out the hook, plain to view; a blind fish might see it! Oh, my poor fly, that couldn’t conceal the hook any longer! Mr. Piscator, lend me your knife, while I cut the bait from the line, rags, paint, iron and all, and throw it back into the water, thus. Now then, little fish! silly fish! come all of you, and see what has befooled you! What some of your tribe have swallowed because they thought it was good, and some because they were careless, and others because they were hungry and must have something! What many of ye have taken in, and more have nibbled at, and all have gazed at, and admired and longed for! Oh, rare sport have ye made me, foolish things! And longer would I have played with you, but the evening comes on, and I must bid you a happy farewell. So we are under way again, are we?

Piscator. We are again under way; and I have hope of reaching home before yonder cloud comes over us. And trust me, when it does come, it will bring more wind with it.

Discipula. Once more on the open bosom of the lake! How the little black angry waves dance up one after another, and roll past us toward the northern shore. And see that dim hill at the other extremity of the pond, how gigantic and broken it looks. Oh, Mr. Piscator, let’s go and see it! let’s go and see it! And those high perpendicular rocks, that stand out so boldly. Yes, yes, put up the helm! we’ll go and see how they look in the twilight.

Piscator. But my dear child, it will take an hour and a half longer to go round by the rocks, and before that time, I fear the storm will increase.

Discipula. Oh, never fear the storm. I’ll risk it! And when we get up there, we can take a short cut across to our port; so put up the helm!—good Mr. Piscator, kind Mr. Piscator! do let us run up to the hill! I can assure you there is no danger.

Piscator. I cannot well deny any thing that you ask of me; but much I doubt, Mr. –

Discipula. Nay, nay, doubt nothing. We shall get home safe, trust me for that. And that cloud, that you are so fearful of, is not coming over us, at all; it is coming down on the other shore of the lake. Please, Mr. Pilot, to keep in a little nearer the land, or we shall pass the rocks so far out, that we shall not be able to see them with distinctness.

Piscator. A wilful woman must even have her own way. My child! you will catch your death with cold, to take off your bonnet so!

Discipula. I’m not afraid of it; I want to feel the air.

Piscator. And where are you going now?

Discipula. Going to sit down in the bow of the boat. This view is much finer! Oh, this is grand!

Piscator. But, good scholar! good scholar! you will certainly fall out there! I believe you are crazy, you look so wild!

Discipula. How the boat pitches over the little waves! And, Mr. Piscator, direct the boat toward the shore, so as to make it rock more. The heavens are all grey, and the waters are all black, and the wind is high and wild in its sport like an imprisoned bird let loose. Oh master, spread the other sail, and see if we can’t fly faster! Here are the rocks so grim; but it is growing dark, and I can only just make them out. Why, Mr. Piscator, you are not going near enough! Run close in under them!

Piscator. I shall say to you plainly, what you ask is impossible. It would be running an unwarrantable hazard; as indeed coming up here at all was unwarrantable.

Discipula. At least then, good master, keep along up at this distance, if that pleases you best; for there is a bluff just ahead, which projects farther out than the others, and we shall pass close by it.

Piscator. It is high time that we commenced our return in good earnest. And therefore, scholar, for I must remind you that you are my scholar till I see you safe ashore; therefore, if you please, you may stand by the sail to tack.

Discipula. But just look once, how boldly and sternly it lifts up its calm front out of the boiling waters!

Piscator. It is without doubt, very fine; but it is impossible to hold on a foot farther. So if you will stand by the sail–

Discipula. I wish I had a boat of my own to sail out here alone in and go where I choose! Well, what shall I do? how shall I go to work? Oh, Mr. Piscator! honest Mr. Piscator! let me hold the helm while you take care of the sails.

Piscator. Willingly, if your hand is strong enough. Try it; shall you be able to hold it as it is?

Discipula. With the greatest ease. Now then, are you ready? What are you letting down the sail for? That three-cornered rag from the bow-sprit wont be enough!

Piscator. It would be unsafe to set the main-sail, and I think with this breeze the fore-stay-sail will drive us sufficiently fast.

Discipula. Well, suit yourself. Now are you ready?

Piscator. Ready, certainly, when I take the helm. But what are you doing? If you undertake to let the skiff fall off before the wind you will upset us, as sure as–

Discipula. Just see if I do. Let me hold the helm. Oh yes, let me!

Piscator. But scholar! good scholar! dear scholar!

Discipula. No, no, I wont give it up! you can’t have it! Honest Mr. Piscator, let me steer the boat, only a little way! Oh, but I will; and there is no use in your trying to prevent me. See there now, haven’t we come round to our course in good style?

Piscator. A taste of power to those who are unaccustomed to it is always dangerous, and I blame myself for permitting you to usurp the post of pilot. Though, as you seem determined to maintain it, I cannot choose but to sit down here quietly, and trust our lives to your skill. My life indeed! But yours? Seriously now, my fair young lady, would it not be wiser–

Discipula. Seriously now, my careful master, I don’t think it would. Why, what would you have? Are we not skimming over the waves like a sea-bird free? And see those two birds, how they dash by us, and wheel round over us, and breast the gale! Oh master! wouldn’t you like to be a sea-bird, and swing sideways, with your face to the wind that almost took your breath away, swing down, down, glance against the water, then on the other side, swing up, up? And wouldn’t it be sweet too to struggle your way up through the storm, high over that cloud yonder, with the thunder on its inside and the lightning on its out—then fold your wings, close your eyes, and fall calmly down on to its dark, soft, bosom? Oh, wouldn’t it be sweet?

Piscator. My dear scholar, our landing place lies here, toward the north-east, and you are running directly north.

Discipula. Don’t be under any apprehensions; I am only going to run out half a mile farther, that we may get before the wind, and then we’ll scud straight toward home. And beside, we rock more, going in this direction. I wish it would blow harder, and make more swell! You know now, Mr. Piscator, how a wild swan feels when he sits on the water and is buoyed up on the heaving wave, and in a breath sinks into the black abyss. If I were a wild swan I would go to sleep and let the winds blow and the waters heave! How the boat careens over and plunges down when the blast whistles against the masts! Drive on! Drive on! my light gallant bark! Oh, my master! shall I sing you a song? a little song of the sea? a pirate song?

Piscator. You look at this present moment as if you might sing a pirate song, or be a pirate yourself. I observe that since you have taken off your bonnet, the wind has somewhat disarranged your hair.

Discipula. Wouldn’t you like to be a pirate, though? I would; and roam over the ocean at my own free will; and through the storm and spray, and lightning-glances of the wild midnight, dash on my fleeing victim like the eagle on his prey! All hands on deck to get on more sail! Stand by to unfurl the main-sail to the tempest!

Piscator. Will it please you, my fair pilot, to inform me whither you are taking us?

Discipula. I am going to run into that cloud yonder; the one before us, with the thunder on its inside and the lightning on its out.

Piscator. What you call a cloud appears to me to be a hill, that rises a few rods back from the shore.

Discipula. Oh, it’s a cloud—a cloud! And there is a star that glimmers through it.

Piscator. I see nothing but the twinkling of a taper, from the window of some dwelling.

Discipula. I tell you it’s a star—a star! The cloud has settled down into the water like a mountain; and through its base penetrates a tunnel, through which the ray of that star comes—a long, straight cavern, arched overhead and on either side by wreathed and rolling pillars of smoke. I’ll put up the helm and run into it! Bear up! bear up! bear stoutly up, my brave, bold bark! and plunge forward like the horse into the smoke of battle, through this path to the subterranean abodes!

Piscator. Let me take the tiller! Let it go! Put it around quick then; you are running on the beach!

Discipula. Why don’t you see we are just entering the dark mouth of the tunnel? We shall soon be into it.

Piscator. Hark! here it comes! Now hold hard, for there we are, grounded and staved!

Discipula. Tartarian rocks and whirlpools!

Piscator. Quick! ashore! The boat is going to pieces!

Discipula. Ha! ha! ha! Was it well done, my master? was it well done?

Piscator. It was well done, you little water-witch!