 |
|
|
Silas Crockett
|
A stirring tale that recounts the sweeping changes that took place on the Maine coast during the 19th and early 20th centuries. By offering superior historical detail, authenticity and great writing Chase's classic novel is considered one of the most distinguished books in Maine history. Includes a new foreword by Sanford Phippen. Part of our Maine Classics series.
Silas Crockett traces life on the Maine coast through four generations of a seafaring family. From the era of clipper ships through Grand Banks fishing to the arrival of summer residents, this is a 100-year epic filled with vibrant descriptions of the sweeping cultural, economic and philosophical changes that washed over Maine. Mary Ellen Chase weaves wonderful historical detail with engaging characters so readers understand what it was like for a young wife to join her husband on a months-long trade voyage in 1830; for a small boy to yearn for the attention of his mother, herself a grieving widow; and for a man raised in the tradition of seafaring forced to choose between leaving home for a long voyage or undertaking a risky, but shorter and more lucrative one. Chase draws her characters sharply and provides a voice to the everyday concerns and cares of people who lived and died by the sea. Written in 1935, Silas Crockett remains an important piece of literature for anyone who wishes to understand the rich maritime history of Maine.
 |
About the Author Mary Ellen Chase (1887-1973) was born and raised in Blue Hill, Maine. She graduated from the University of Maine and earned a Ph.D from the University of Minnesota before serving 30 years as a leading faculty member at Smith College in Massachusetts. She wrote more than 30 books, many using her cherished Maine heritage as the setting, capturing the unique spirit and chronicling a way of life for generations. She stood as one of the leading writers of her era. |
Excerpt from Silas Crockett:
"Once at his post, well-propped against the stout wood of the
mast which shielded him somewhat from the wind, he began his watch. He
was glad to be away from the cabin and alone, weary and ill as he was.
The thoughts which had been dulled by labour or waylaid by the necessity
for constant vigilance came back to him there, high above the black sea,
in the immensity of space. In seven days if the wind held good he would
be at home, bathed and in a clean bed; in five weeks he would be leaving
for New York and the Searsport ship, his life at last beginning after
its long span of incompleteness. Even the hardest and least propitious
of voyages in comparison with his experience of the past days would seem
a yachting cruise. And after a rest at home with the money he was bringing
smoothing the way for everybody, he would be at the height of his powers,
able to impress the finest of commanders with the knowledge that sail
could never entirely pass from the seas since there were young men left
who, like their fathers, were worthy of it.
At brief intervals he swung his arms violently across and against his chest, although the pain of his action was almost less easily borne than the fear that prompted it. He began to do this once he had fully realized the cold, of which the man he had relieved had warned him. He continued to do it, soon not so much in fear of the cold itself as of the drowsiness which crept over him, dulling his mind and silencing the pain of his body, bringing with it the terror of sleep.
Now the future closed down before him, black and opaque as was the dark wall of the night beyond his shortened vision. He could not pierce it, try as he would. In its place the past came back, not thronging upon him, gay and bright with memories, but gleaming fitfully through long stretches of darkness as fireflies gleam over Maine meadows and through tangled roadside thickets on warm July evenings. Once he mistook the Lydia for the Duncan Dunbar rushing through black waters for Sydney Heads. He even roused himself with painful suddenness at that instant by hearing his voice cry to the cold stars above him, "Hell or Sydney in sixty days!" The cold became transferred to the cold of his grandfather's house on the day when he had died, and the tapping of frozen reef-points against the taut sails the tapping of the bare April lilacs against the leaded panes in the sidelights of the old front doorway. And last of all, deep down in the bottom of his slipping mind, there came one by one the sight of soap-bubbles, brighter than the lights that streamed above him, the warm May sunshine, and Deborah in a blue dress, cookie-men with currants for buttons, and the words of an old song:
"King Nebuchadnezzar, that wily old fox
God sent to the fields to eat grass with an ox.
Said the ox to the king, 'You're an odd king to me,
But I'll lend you my grass and the shade of my tree.'"