132 LITERARY PILGRIMAGES 



far through the slender creeks, marshes dotted at 

 this time of year as far as eye can see with the 

 rounded domes of many- footed haystacks, a place 

 where the full sky is yours for the seeing, where 

 all winds blow free, and blowing bring to your 

 lungs the rich, life-giving scent of the deep sea 

 tides, caught and concentrated in the tangled 

 grasses and touched with a faint essence of their 

 own perfume. Beyond again lies Plum Island. 

 Here the sea beats in savage vigor, and I seem 

 to get in its voice an echo of the sonorous poems in 

 which John Pierpont denounced slavery. Pier- 

 pont was one of the great writers of his day, and 

 his work lasts. He may well have got the culture, 

 depth and dignity of his multitudinous sermons 

 from the atmosphere he found among the great 

 square houses built by the old-time shipmasters 

 and shipbuilders on the ridge which is the back- 

 bone of the city. In the laughing beauty of the 

 up-river scenery I can fancy him finding light- 

 winged fancies such as the couplet he wrote in 

 Miss Octavia's album : 



"Octavia; what, the eighth! If bounteous heaven 

 Hath made eight such, where are the other seven? " 



