Through the same region of the island, but further east, extended
wide central tracts of pine and scrub-oak, (charcoal was largely made
here,) monotonous and sterile. But many a good day or half-day did
I have, wandering through those solitary crossroads, inhaling the
peculiar and wild aroma. Here, and all along the island and its
shores, I spent intervals many years, all seasons, sometimes riding,
sometimes boating, but generally afoot, (I was always then a good
walker,) absorbing fields, shores, marine incidents, characters, the
bay-men, farmers, pilots-always had a plentiful acquaintance with the
latter, and with fishermen--went every summer on sailing trips--always
liked the bare sea-beach, south side, and have some of my happiest
hours on it to this day.
As I write, the whole experience comes back to me after the lapse of
forty and more years--the soothing rustle of the waves, and the saline
smell--boyhood's times, the clam-digging, bare-foot, and with
trowsers roll'd up--hauling down the creek--the perfume of
the sedge-meadows--the hay-boat, and the chowder and fishing
excursions;--or, of later years, little voyages down and out New York
bay, in the pilot boats. Those same later years, also, while living in
Brooklyn, (1836-'50) I went regularly every week in the mild seasons
down to Coney Island, at that time a long, bare unfrequented shore,
which I had all to myself, and where I loved, after bathing, to race
up and down the hard sand, and declaim Homer or Shakspere to the surf
and sea gulls by the hour.
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