“Letter from Cape Cod,” Boston Daily Evening Transcript, 1 August 1867

[Summer Correspondence of the Transcript.]
LETTER FROM CAPE COD.

                                                                                       Provincetown,
                                                                  Tip End of Cape Cod, July 29, 1867.
       To the Editor of the Transcript: Since my last letter I have made a foot-trip to Truro, which is situated about six miles from Provincetown, and made famous by Thoreau in his “Cape Cod.” Truro is the Goshen of this part of the cape and supplies the Provincetown people with their eggs, milk, butter and vegetables. Provincetown is so barren that if the State should cut off the end of the Cape and leave it out in the cold, her people would be left to subsist, like the aborigines, upon fish and quahogs. I should advise them, therefore, to keep “shady,” stick to the Constitution and the laws, and vote the straight Republican ticket.
       I wish to describe a few things that I saw in the course of this ramble.

THE DESERT.

       No one should come to the Cape without exploring the Desert, which is remarkable for its extent and barrenness. It lies on the ocean side of the Cape, back of Provincetown, and is about six miles long and a mile in width, extending from the end of the Cape into Truro—a succession of desolate sand-hills and hollows. The most naked part is near Truro, where it [words illegible on microfilm] waste or pure, spotless sand, where not even a bunch of beach-grass can be seen upon its surface, and so smooth that you can look back upon your course and see your tracks for nearly a mile, [words illegible on microfilm] in distance. Instead of being monotonous, it is enlivened by the [word illegible on microfilm] shadows that silently flit across it, producing upon its smooth and wavy surface an ever-varying and marvellous effect of light and shade. Sand is a misnomer to apply to it. It is rather a finished work of the wind-artist, wrought by his hundred-handed skill into a scene of surpassing beauty. Its smoothness and graceful curves and blended light and shadow fascinate the eye of the beholder, who involuntarily gazes at it until he is blinded by its dazzling brilliancy.

CAPE COD BEACH.

       We pass from the desert to the beach, an uninterrupted stretch of surf-beaten sand, and grand enough in its loneliness to have satisfied even Byron’s idea of a lonely shore. An east wind had raged for hours, and the sea was madly beating its waves into foam and spray for miles along the beach, rushing upon the shore like white-maned steeds, while the shore in turn hissed them back in derision as often as they advanced.
       A strange sensation comes over one as he stands here alone, a merciless ocean in front and a desert waste behind. He involuntarily looks about him for something diminutive, as a pebble or a shell, to befriend him, and to assure himself that he still retains his personal identity. Nor does one feel quite sure of the good-will of these immense companions. Little do they care either for a man’s body or soul! Might not Leviathan or the sea-serpent slip out of this deep, and in spite of his poor entreaties, bear him off in a twinkling to the unfathomed caves? I dare avow that one fears it, though he disbelieves it.

HIGHLAND LIGHT.

       Highland Light is in Truro, and was the headquarters of Thoreau when he explored this part of the Cape. The land is high and breezy, destitute of trees, and commands a fine view of the Cape from side to side. The bluff or bank on which the light-house stands is about one hundred and thirty feet high, the base of which is washed by every tide. This bluff, which runs along the shore for miles, gives a grandeur to Cape Cod beach which few other beaches can boast of. The light-house is worth visiting. Ascending a spiral staircase the keeper ushered us into the lantern. You can get no better idea of the size and appearance of the lens than by imagining yourself standing within a large crystal barrel, ten feet high, and six feet in diameter, tapering at the top, the wick being in the center. Thick plate-glass protects it on the outside from the weather. It is called the Freshnel light, after its French inventor.

THE OLD KEEPER.

       I met at this place the former keeper of the light, Thoreau’s host, a fine, intelligent old man, now eighty years old. He well remembered Thoreau, whom he thought to be a very clever kind of a fellow. He thought Thoreau knew a good deal, and said he would ask more questions in one half hour than he could find  answers for in a week. As to Thoreau’s book, he had read it and thought there were some errors in it, owing to his information being obtained from so many different persons. We remained one night at the old gentleman’s house, regretting as we left that we could not stay longer.

POND VILLAGE.

       This village is less than a mile from the light on the bay side of the Cape, and contains one church and about fifty families. The meeting-house serves for both Methodists and Orthodox, who compromise matters by changing ministers every two years, each sect in turn having a minister of its own kind. My informant was ignorant as to the quality of the preaching, as he didn’t go to meeting. I concluded he was not a native, for the natives are all church-goers; but I afterwards learned in the course of conversation that he had lived twenty years in Charlestown, near enough the “Hub” to forget his mother’s precepts and the habits of his native village.
       There is a pond in this village which an old man told me was measured by Miles Standish and his party, when they explored this region on their first landing at Provincetown. He also said that Standish buried in the swamp a copper kettle which he had taken from the Indians. The old man said he didn’t think it looked very well for Miles Standish to steal a kettle from the Indians and then hide it away. I thought the old man was right, for it seemed to me to be rather unpuritanic.
       Leaving the village, we descended to the beach, from the high bank that overlooks the Bay, and walked along the shore towards Provincetown, until we came upon a fisherman mending his boat. He being eager to talk, and we as eager to listen, we all sat down upon the sand together, while he related the following

STORY OF LUMPKINS’S LIGHT.

       Many years ago a vessel sailed from Boston for Provincetown harbor, having on board a large amount of gold and silver. Among the crew was a man by the name of Lumpkins, who had knowledge of the treasure, and in order to secure it, he put the captain and the rest of the crew to death. Lumpkins and the vessel were never seen nor heard of again; but for years afterwards, the people of Provincetown often saw at night a strange light appear in the harbor, dancing about over its surface, and darting from point to point in a very singular and startling manner. “This,” said the narrator, “was supposed to be the troubled spirit of Lumpkins.” “And I have seen it myself,” he continued. “I was a boy, and had been after the cows that had wandered so far away that it was dark before I found them; and as I was driving them home along the shore, all at once I saw a strange light upon the water, jumping up and down, and coming straight towards me. It came so near that I heard it hiss, making my hair stand right straight up.”
       “Now,” said he, “there are a good many stories that are not true, but this Lumpkins story is real, for I have seen the light with my own eyes.” He added that it is never seen now-a-days. As the narrator of this story was a Universalist, we suggested that Lumpkins had probably partaken of his personal allowance of universal salvation, and was therefore now at peace.
       In return for the story we helped the fisherman turn his boat over, and, bidding him adieu, resumed our walk towards Provincetown, which we reached too early in the afternoon to see the ghost of cruel Lumpkins.
                                                                                                          Hamilton.