[Portsmouth—Monday, 30 July 1866]

Monday. Left for the Isles of Shoals. On our way we heard of the success of the cable. What happiness for Mr Field[s]—at length, after 8 years of disappointments—peace in Europe reported as the first message.

At the station in Portsmouth Lillian Aldrich came forward to meet us fluttering and white as a lily bringing flowers—we all embarked immediately on a steamer for the Shoals. The day was fair, the banks of the Piscatequa [sic] gleaming with white homes, waving trees, pleasure boats and all the gay paraphenalia of men in harmony with nature in this perfect midsummer time. Something of river passed by and much of the wide sea and at length the rocky islands! Here we found Julian Hawthorne ready to receive us and the noon day sun; so we were glad to follow the troop of people over the plank road to an overcrowded hotel and wait our time. After dinner was passed and we had seen our fellow travellers safely re-embarked for Portsmouth we started to explore the island—walking over the bleached rocks and threading our way through bayberry while the dark clouds rolled up fold over fold from the north and summer peace and loveliness reigned in the south and all around the note of the never silent sea came up from the cliffs which hedged us in. Everywhere if grass was found we set our foot, on graves, if stones they were white & bearded, like Tithonus. We walked over the island peeping in cleft and cranny where the sea would reach up awful fingers and shake them in the face of the intruder. The day was calm, no winds fell from the mighty clouds but a gentle brooding sadness overspread the scene; something of the dread of the place came over us, a knowledge of the drear of winter and the loneliness of the life when the busy crowd now here is swept away by the breath of autumn. The whole horizon was outspread around us; by & by we returned to the hotel and the cheerful look of the place was pleasant—young girls darting to & fro from the bath to their rooms or walking on the piazza with their elders or playing croquet watched by gentlemen on the balcony. We walked over to find Mrs Thaxter—where we sat a few moments but finding her busy we promised to return in the evening. For a while we lingered in her garden brilliant, with marigolds, nasturtiums, cholius and fragrant with mignonette and gay with the notes of robins (some tame ones she has in a cage), a parrot, two canaries and the wild birds who hold discourse with these; beside a table with half arranged sea-mosses stood there on the balcony where evidently the music of voices is frequently added to the rest.

In the evening after we had again wandered to the height and watched the fires of sunset burn down and had seen the scattered stars peep out between the clouds and the lighthouses of Portsmouth, Portland, of these islands and Cape Ann appear one by one and the garment of cloud fairly come up and shut out the last gleam of day, we descended again, Miss Mary Bartol, Mr Fields & myself, and found our way to Mrs Thaxter’s. The little parlor was quite full when we arrived of friends who were staying at the hotel and had dropped in for an hour. Mrs Leighton, Mrs T’s mother was there also, a large woman wrapped in a white shawl sitting by the window. She had a gentle whole hearted expression of face which was sweet to see. It was evidently as pleasant for her to be taken care of by Celia as it was for Celia to take care of her. Mrs Leighton withdrew quite early so also did the guests except ourselves, the children too were put to bed by their mother while Miss Robbins who was visiting there went to get her exquisite flower-paintings to show to us. We had already seen some of them for the little room in which we sat was hung with them with the exception of Raphael’s angel over the fireplace, a portrait of Tennyson and a photograph of Mr Hunts Fortune teller—on the mantlepiece were two small black vases of real flowers which only enhanced and harmonized with the beauty of the paintings. Her work was beautiful, especially the Trillium and Poppies—the latter Jamie made ours. While we were looking at these Mrs Thaxter returned and finding us over Poppies, sang “Poppies! poppies! Poppies like these I own are rare!” etc. It was a queer little song and after it was over I started her to talk of the ghost of the island. After a little hesitation she told us the history of Philip Babb who haunts the place. He was a butcher and lived here nearly 80 years ago. The last time he was seen was by her father less than five years since. Mr Leighton was a very commonsensible man, very large in body, very lame, but extremely alert, nothing escaped his observation. He always sat on one corner of the piazza with his crutches by his side but he seemed to see out of the back of his head and to have eyes all round. One day he saw this uncouth figure approching over a shingly walk they call Babb’s beach and he supposed him to be a Star-Islander until as he came nearer he found the figure made no sound, then Mr Leighton gathered up his crutches and started to meet it when he came within a certain distance he stopped and the figure stopped; he observed the pale shining face, the blue and white frock, the butcher’s knife and then again advanced. He came face to face within one yard of Babb when suddenly the figure disappeared. He was lost like the vapor in the sun and has not been seen since.

This story being capped by others we began to feel chilly and Celia lighted a fire of drift-wood which we drew around and again told stories until a late hour then with a promise that she would go with us the next day to see the other islands we departed.

We heard the waves washing up on every side and knew the wide sea was between us and home, with this we fell asleep.


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