Morning journal and courier. [volume] (New Haven [Conn.]) 1848-1894, 1882-08-07
TOrchlight Fishing.
Midnight Expedition After Sea-Pik

A
[From the London Graphic
There is an almost deadly stiffness over the
vast expanse of shallow water which stretches
away for miles away to the north of the little
town. Far, far off, through the dull glim-
that rests upon its surface, may be seen
the brown outlines of woods with their edges
indistinctly merging into the silver gray flood
below them, and here and there a white cha
teau nesting deep in their surrounding
shade. Nothing else on that side breaks the
tranquil monotony of the scene and even in
the foreground close at hand there is little
more lively to attract attention or drive away
sombre thoughts. For it is early in the
spring; and Arcachon is still deserted by the
gay crowd which lakes it summer home.
Its rows of small, white houses, perched on
ly a few feet above the great lake, have their
green Venetian blinds all close shut, and
seem to be sleeping, like everything else, in
the faint pale light of the afternoon sun.
Not sound of wheels, not a footstep passes
along the smooth, sandy road and amidst
the profound solitude one may almost think
that man, like nature, is dead, and waiting
for the first warm shower to awake to a new
life.
deep and yet fascinating melancholy
seizes on the soul, and often keeps the stran-
ger for many minute gazing in listless rev
erie upon the silent waters before him. To
break the spell you must turn round and
plunge into the dense wood lying behind,
there by villa garden, seems to frown with
gloomy and rugged brow upon the sleeping
village. Yet the forest, when once you en-
ter it, is less still and sad than the road out
side Under foot the crisp pine needles rus
tie and crash as you tread upon them. Among
the rough trunks overhead you may see now
and tEen a squirrel lodging about; and
from branch to branch a few tree creepers or
tomtits fit with weak nervous chirping, as
if half afraid of their own voices in SO sol
emn and venerable place. The sunlight
which is faint enough outside. is dimmed to
a still softer hue as it forces it's feeble way
through the leaves above. Yet it is warm
with the rich brown of the trunks and the
| carpet of dead foliage on the ground, which
seems almost of itself to cast glow ON every
thing that moves through the calm twilight.
half an hours walking will bring you to a
| break in the long labyrinth of trunks, and
| soon through the opening space you may see
| the din line of the distant sea level. There
| to the west lies the great Atlantic, nor more
| rough and restless, as it looks from here,
| than the inland estuary on the north: AS
| you emerge from the pine wood there lies at
| your feet sandy shore-soft but stubborn
| barrier against the waves beyond it. Moth
| ing now tells of the fierce assaults which the
| ocean has made upon the yellow rampant,
! unless it be the black, lifeless corpses of
| some uprooted trees lying helpless with
their heads toward the beach. few yards
| farther on is a fisherman's hut crouched at
1 the edge of the pine forests, and near it ID a
| couple of clumsy boats, and thin fringe of
| nets stretched like a fine all over the sand.
| 1t is here that we are to come for the night
| for the torchlight pec/te 0uc atguiIte ; and
| having made our appointment with the old
| fisherman we hurry back to the small town.
Four hours later we are speeding along
| through the black pine trees to that remote
| TRUSTING place. 1t is late for in this dreamy
atmosphere, heavily laden with the scent OF
| the woods, time passes almost unmarked.
The contagion of laziness intects each living
| creature, and even the attractions of torch
light fishing expedition cannot dispel the in
| stinctive disposition to linger and idle the
| evening away. So our boat when catch
| sight of it is already far away on the waste
| of water. We can see it fitting like FREELY
in the distance hither and thither, its rude
outline marked out fitfully in the glare of the
| red light it carries. But the men have heard
the Jingle of our ponies bells-every sounG
travels far and clear along the tranquil sur
| face. They are soon at the edge of the water
| and waiting for us to embark.
''You are Late" says the old fisherman il
his deep, hoarse voice and his southern pa
| tots !; and then, as he points to the clums,
seat in the stern. explains that the sport is 10
| good on account of the moon anda s'ight,breez
"But the wind is dying away, and the cloud
are coming up; so perhaps we shall do bet
ter yet !" and with that laconic hope he re
lapses into silence, and the boat glides out
into the shallow sea- water.
There are two men in the boat but tn
other, sitting speechless in the bows, onl
plies O rough pair of SOULS. Our fisherman
] in the meantime, welding his long four