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THE CONCLUSION.

Thus the regions of land and sea around Pigeon Cove have been partly surveyed. Readers at a distance, unused to the peculiar aspects and changes of these regions, need not think they have been described in the strain of exaggeration. Those who have lived longest on our promontory bear within their minds the most numerous and the deepest impressions of the marvels connected with it. The far-away-inland dwellers, among the mountains and on the prairies, would find here the most glowing and enthusiastic descriptions more than confirmed. "It is salt," said the Indian preacher who had come from the north side of Lake Erie to see his brethren in Christian faith near the Atlantic, and to see the Atlantic too. He had not doubted what he had heard and read of the saltness of the sea, but he wanted the certainty of a taste of it. Standing on the rocks and looking into the sea, he expressed surprise and admiration, the water was so clear. Scooping a little of it with his hollowed hand, and tasting it, "It is salt," he said; and his countenance brightened. As to this one thing he had not been deceived. Nor had he been deceived as to many, many wonders of the ocean. For every curious and marvellous tale; for every Indian tradition, legend, and myth which he had to tell, he soon learned that he could get in return many a pleasing surprise, many a mysterious, impressive lesson. At Overlook, on an evening in autumn, to a group of listeners seated before a glowing grate, he sang some of the hymns of the Delawares, playing on the piano his own accompaniments. He also repeated a series of myths. These were alive with the spirit of poetry, and brilliant with the colors of the imagination. So well did he relate his Pagan fictions, that to those who heard them the high-wrought recitals of Longfellow's Indian epic will no longer seem overdone. Afterwards, at the seaside, it was his turn to be entertained. Here, indeed, he was drawn by the new flavor and odor of brine, the splendor of countless waves, and the ceaseless rote of the beating surf, into a boundless realm of wonder and mystery.

The Indian visitor's word often comes to mind. The sea is salt. Moreover, it never loses its savor. It is the same year after year, — a conservator of the world's life and vigor; and, through innumerable forms and mutations, a minister of blessing to the minds and hearts of men.

"The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon 1
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers:
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn."

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