THE FIRE ISLANDS, yd 



seventy. The sermon was a mere expansion of the 

 story of the woman who was cured of an issue of blood. 

 The preacher was a young man of ordinary intellect. 

 He was also somewhat embarrassed, which spoiled the 

 delivery of the sermon. The simple narrative of the 

 New Testament he took for an outline sketch, which 

 he filled up to suit his imagination. 



But there was something primitive about this place 

 of worship that interested me; and as I came out and 

 looked on the faded forest on one side, and the far- 

 receding ocean on the other, while all was silent and 

 still around, it did not seem possible that I was within 

 a few hours' ride of New York and its Babel-like con- 

 fusion. It seemed like shoving the western frontier 

 up to the city, and from its wild borders looking down 

 Broadway, and through the magnificent churches. 



Monday morning was cold and blustering. A chill 

 west wind swept the ocean, and raged around the 

 dwelling, till every shingle and clapboard seemed 

 drumroing against the timbers to keep its fingers 

 warm. The fragmentary clouds went trooping fiercely 

 over the intensely bright sky; the sea was covered 

 with foam, and the deep voice of the waves came 

 riding inland on the blast; while a schooner, dragging 

 its anchor, drove rapidly along the shore, its naked 

 masts reeling to and fro in the gale, around which 

 the sea-gulls swept in rapid circles. Our friend said 

 that some hunters were to drive deer that day, and 

 he wished us to see the manner in which it was done. 

 The cold, fierce blast did not give us a very cheerful 

 welcome out of doors, but we bundled up and started. 



