THE FIRE ISLANDS. 103 



water, lost in the smoky atmosphere, comes the in- 

 cessant report of fire-arms. Scores of these "bat- 

 teries" are anchored there. The incessant firing they 

 keep up seems like the cannonading between two 

 battle ships that are at the work of death. The dull 

 and heavy sound is increased in volume on the sea, 

 and, by the state of the atmosphere, and the uninter- 

 rupted bom! bom! from the distant mist-wrapped 

 ocean, awakens strange feelings in one just from the 

 stir and tumult of city life. There is not an interval 

 of ten seconds between these explosions. Sometimes 

 there are several discharges at once, like a whole 

 broadside, and then a rolling fire like that which goes 

 from stem to stern of a ship, and then a straggling 

 shot jarring the atmosphere with its report. As a 

 sort of interlude to all this, from an unseen island, 

 three or four miles distant, rises a confused and con- 

 stant scream from myriads of sea fowl congregated 

 there — keeping up one of the wildest concerts I ever 

 listened to. Rising as it does out of the mist, and, 

 as it were, in response to the constant explosion along 

 the sea, like the cries of the wounded and dying on 

 a field of battle, and just as twilight is deepening 

 over the water, it imparts inconceivable wildness and 

 mystery to the scene. In the midst of this mighty 

 solitude, I stood absorbed and impressed beyond mea- 

 sure, and lingered till the increasing darkness and 

 the rising tide admonished me it was time to return. 

 A new world of thought and emotion had been born 

 within me in the few hours I had mused on that soli- 

 tary shore. 



