Castle Nowhere | Page 2

because of that Spirit of Discontent that had
driven him forth, into the wilderness; probably the Spirit of Discontent
knew what it was about. Thus for days, for weeks, our white man
wandered through the forest and wandered at random, for, being an
exception, he preferred to go nowhere; he had his compass, but never
used it, and, a practised hunter, eat what came in his way and planned
not for the morrow. 'Now am I living the life of a good, hearty,
comfortable bear,' he said to himself with satisfaction.
'No, you are not, Waring,' replied the Spirit of Discontent, 'for you
know you have your compass in your pocket and can direct yourself
back to the camps on Lake Superior or to the Sault for supplies, which
is more than the most accomplished bear can do.'
'O come, what do you know about bears?' answered Waring; 'very
likely they too have their depots of supplies,--in caves perhaps--'
'No caves here.'

'In hollow trees, then.'
'You are thinking of the stories about bears and wild honey,' said the
pertinacious Spirit.
'Shut up, I am going to sleep,' replied the man, rolling himself in his
blanket; and then the Spirit, having accomplished his object, smiled
blandly and withdrew.
Wandering thus, all reckoning lost both of time and place, our white
man came out one evening unexpectedly upon a shore; before him was
water stretching away grayly in the fog-veiled moonlight; and so
successful had been his determined entangling of himself in the webs
of the wilderness, that he really knew not whether it was Superior,
Huron or Michigan that confronted him, for all three bordered on the
eastern end of the upper peninsula. Not that he wished to know;
precisely the contrary. Glorifying himself in his ignorance, he built a
fire on the sands, and leaning back against the miniature cliffs that
guard the even beaches of the inland seas, he sat looking out over the
water, smoking a comfortable pipe of peace, and listening meanwhile
to the regular wash of the waves. Some people are born with rhythm in
their souls, and some not; to Jarvis Waring everything seemed to keep
time, from the songs of the birds to the chance words of a friend; and
during all this pilgrimage through the wilderness, when not actively
engaged in quarrelling with the Spirit, he was repeating bits of verses
and humming fragments of songs that kept time with his footsteps, or
rather they were repeating and humming themselves along through his
brain, while he sat apart and listened. At this moment the fragment that
came and went apropos of nothing was Shakespeare's sonnet,
'When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up
remembrance of things past.'
Now the small waves came in but slowly, and the sonnet in keeping
time with their regular wash, dragged its syllables so dolorously that at
last the man woke to the realisation that something was annoying him.
'When to--the ses--sions of--sweet si--lent thought,'
chanted the sonnet and waves together.
'O double it, double it, can't you?' said the man impatiently, 'this way:--
"When to the ses--sions of sweet si--lent thought, te-tum, --te-tum,
te-tum."
But no; the waves and the lines persisted in their own idea, and the

listener finally became conscious of a third element against him,
another sound which kept time with the obstinate two and encouraged
them in obstinacy,--the dip of light oars somewhere out in the gray
mist.
'When to--the ses--sions of--sweet si--lent thought, I sum--mon
up--remem--brance of--things past,'
chanted the sonnet and the waves and the oars together, and went duly
on, sighing the lack of many things they sought away down to that 'dear
friend' who in some unexplained way made all their 'sorrows end.' Even
then, while peering through the fog and wondering where and what was
this spirit boat that one could hear but not see, Waring found time to
make his usual objections. 'This summoning up remembrance of things
past, sighing the lack, weeping afresh, and so forth, is all very well,' he
remarked to himself, 'we all do it. But that friend who sweeps in at the
death with his opportune dose of comfort is a poetical myth whom I,
for one, have never yet met.'
'That is because you do not deserve such a friend,' answered the Spirit,
briskly reappearing on the scene. 'A man who flies in the wilderness to
escape--'
'Spirit, are you acquainted with a Biblical personage named David?'
interrupted Waring, executing a flank movement.
The spirit acknowledged the acquaintance, but cautiously, as not
knowing what was coming next.
'Did he or did he not have anything to say about flying to wildernesses
and mountain-tops? Did he or did he not express wishes to sail thither
in person?'
'David had a