Thus, brother, have I furnished you with as minute a detail of the sad misfortunes that have attended me, in my intended passage to Antigua, in February and March last, as circumstances will admit of--and here permit me once more to repeat the enquiry--is it not sufficient to satisfy you and every reasonable person, that I owe my life and liberty to the interposition of a Divine Providence?--so fully persuaded am I of this, dear brother, and of my great obligations to that Supreme Being who turned not away my prayer nor his mercy from me, that I am determined to engage with my whole heart to serve Him the residue of my days on earth, by the aid of his heavenly grace--and invite all who profess to fear Him (should a single doubt remain on their minds) to come and hear what he hath done for me!
I am, dear brother, affectionately yours, LUCRETIA PARKER.
[26] From an Old Pamphlet, published in 1825.
The Last of the North Atlantic Pirates[27]
In the farther end of the Bay of Fundy, about a mile off from the Nova Scotian coast, is the Isle of Haut. It is a strange rocky island that rises several hundred feet sheer out of the sea, without any bay or inlets. A landing can only be effected there in the calmest weather; and on account of the tremendous ebb of the Fundy tides, which rise and fall sixty feet every twelve hours, the venturesome explorer cannot long keep his boat moored against the precipitous cliffs.
Because of this inaccessibility little is known of the solitary island. Within its rampart walls of rock they say there is a green valley, and in its center is a fathomless lake, where the Micmac Indians used to bury their dead, and hence its dread appellation of the "Island of the Dead." Beyond these bare facts nothing more is certain about the secret valley and the haunted lake. Many wild and fabulous descriptions are current, but they are merely the weavings of fancy.
Sometimes on a stormy night the unhappy navigators of the North Channel miss the coast lights in the fog, and out from the Isle of Haut a gentle undertow flirts with their bewildered craft. Then little by little they are gathered into a mighty current against which all striving is in vain, and in the white foam among the iron cliffs their ship is pounded into splinters. The quarry which she gathers in so softly at first and so fiercely at last, however, is soon snatched away from the siren shore. The ebb-tide bears every sign of wreckage far out into the deeps of the Atlantic, and not a trace remains of the ill-starred vessel or her crew. But one of the boats in the fishing fleet never comes home, and from lonely huts on the coast reproachful eyes are cast upon the "Island of the Dead."