[Appledore Island—Tuesday, 31 July 1866]
How resplendent was the awaking day! We leaped up to find the sun shimmering over rocks and sea and through the morning mist. The wide ocean was before our windows. After speedy bath and dressing we found ourselves ready for the day and after a short walk on the piazza Miss Mary sat by the piano and played in her own simple eloquent manner till it seemed I could listen forever.
Celia came over leading little Roland after breakfast. We were soon in a boat together bound for Star Island. She told us her father called these people Rugians; nobody knew why but they always went by this name with him.
The place was very still in the sunshine of early morning. The fishers had gone away, the women were at their household duties, and we passed through their yards and over their walls seeing very few except a woman occasionally at door or window whom Celia accosted with “good morning Susan”—“are you well Sarah” etc. There are only about 50 inhabitants left on Star Island; there were many more formerly when Spain carried on direct commerce with this place for Dun fish which was beautifully cured by them then. At present they have nearly lost the art, few taking the pains to do it as well as formerly. We crossed the island again treading over graves. There does not seem to be any history of how or when these people died and disappeared, the records of the place were burned in a great fire which took place here two years ago but the tradition is that in the War of 1812 the British landed, pillaged & burned the houses, carried off the flocks and killed all who resisted them. Certain it is the people were once many, are now few, and here are their graves. We looked into the church,—the school house is now held here and the preacher is also school-master, physician, & lawyer, “and poor work he makes of it” said C.T. His wife is not a strict example being given to thieving on a small scale herself. They have lost several children and on the head stones have in some instances placed the last words the children have said—on one is, “I did not want to die but I will if Jesus wants me to”. An old salt looking at this inscription one day meditatively was overheard by Mrs Thaxter to say—Well! May be t’was so but I believe it’s all, gord damn nornsense.
We crossed Star Island to the wild cliffs and chasms on the opposite side. In spite of the gay morning hour and the bright sun we felt how wild and desolate it was. As we were standing on a cliff we were told—here is where that young girl was washed away by the treacherous wave which rose up to an unexpected height above its fellows and sucked her down to instant death. This event happened on the same day of the year on which a young girl years ago was washed from the same point. We saw Betty Moody’s chasm also, and the cave where a mother is said to have murdered her two children long ago when they were pursued and had taken refuge here until they were at starving point.
The Star-Islanders have a language of their own, Sparrish for sparrow etc. here I heard a common word enough for the first time, kellish a kind of rude anchor, also sprut sail made with a rod across.
We found “Pip” waiting with the boat in the little harbor among the rocks and reembarked for Smutty Nose; stopping a moment on our way however to speak to a light haired child who ran. Mrs Thaxter lived on this island two years: there is but one house upon it which the old man Haley of whom her father purchased it used to put a light in the window every night before the lighthouse was built. There is a coral reef of rocks running out to sea here where many a Spanish vessel has gone ashore. Here once the rocks were strewn with yellow doubloons and a Star-Islander gathered up a number of them but becoming alarmed he went back and told the others who came and gathered to themselves the riches which might have been his.
One bitter winter’s night the storm howled fearfully about the island and in the morning when Haley came out of the house the sun was shining brightly but a garment of snow covered everything smooth with white except two inequalities which he discovered on the stone wall towards the sea. He went to the wall and found two poor sailors frozen stark in the act of climbing the wall towards the house; a little farther in he found another and then another until 14 bodies were discovered. He brought them towards the house and buried them in his own field where the head-stones still stand moss-grown and nameless in a row. A song-sparrow sings here—no cold no dark silences him but like a perpetual joy his song wells up for those who listen. Celia is one of those.
We found pimpernel and sand-wort cinque foil, wild morning glory, ba[y]berry, huckleberry and their friends growing on these islands. As we were leaving Smutty Nose we were attracted to the back door of the only cottage by the long light curls of a little boy. The mother told us the father was a Dane, Christian Yahnsen and the boy’s hair would have done honor to any Viking. She has 3 children Olaf, Oscar and Christian.
We soon left for White Island where our guide past 5 years of her life. There is only one cottage and the light house here. The waves were thought rather too high for a safe landing. Often during five weeks together they can neither go nor come with safety. Here a cliff of 50 feet fronts the sea and here Celia saw a rock of 15 tons taken by the force of the waves and laid upon the top of the cliff. During that same storm the waves broke over the face of the island and over the cottage itself breaking the windows and rushing in gulfs down the stairway. We pulled around the landing a little while she told us how she held the lantern for her father at night there because the light house did not throw any light so near to itself.
On our return our guide sang to us snatches of sea-songs. She was a child again and had forgotten her mood of last night when she said, endeavoring to recall a date, ‘O what a hag I am’.
Again we came to Appledore. As we neared shore two bathers sprang from the water and entered the bath house close by. We went toward Celia’s house, she passed the bath house singing one verse of a song and her friend inside with a lovely voice answering like thrush to thrush.
Again we sat in the pretty cottage with the flowers and birds and her own singing self but there was business enough for her to do, so we departed early with affectionate farewells. At three o’clock she waved us her adieu from the window as we steamed towards Portsmouth. Perfect afternoon and evening—reached home (Manchester) at nine o’clock.
We stood perhaps ten minutes at Manchester station watching the freight train push backward and forward over the track in a way perfectly incomprehensible to us, the signal lanterns in the meantime whirling around in mystical circles.
