While my companion talked with the women, I talked to the old man.  They said that he was old and foolish, but he was evidently too knowing for them.

“These women,” said he to me, “are both of them poor good-for-nothing critturs.  This one is my wife.  I married her sixty-four years ago.  She is eighty-four years old, and as deaf as an adder, and the other is not much better.”

He thought well of the Bible,—­or at least he spoke well, and did not think ill, of it, for that would not have been prudent for a man of his age.  He said that he had read it attentively for many years, and he had much of it at his tongue’s end.  He seemed deeply impressed with a sense of his own nothingness, and would repeatedly exclaim,—­

“I am a nothing.  What I gather from my Bible is just this:  that man is a poor good-for-nothing crittur, and everything is just as God sees fit and disposes.”

“May I ask your name?” I said.

“Yes,” he answered,—­“I am not ashamed to tell my name.  My name is ——.  My great-grandfather came over from England and settled here.”

He was an old Wellfleet oysterman, who had acquired a competency in that business, and had sons still engaged in it.

Nearly all the oyster-shops and stands in Massachusetts, I am told, are supplied and kept by natives of Wellfleet, and a part of this town is still called Billingsgate, from the oysters having been formerly planted there; but the native oysters are said to have died in 1770.  Various causes are assigned for this, such as a ground frost, the carcasses of black-fish kept to rot in the harbor, and the like; but the most common account of the matter is,—­and I find that a similar superstition with regard to the disappearance of fishes exists almost everywhere,—­that, when Wellfleet began to quarrel with the neighboring towns about the right to gather them, yellow specks appeared in them, and Providence caused them to disappear.  A few years ago sixty thousand bushels were annually brought from the South and planted in the harbor of Wellfleet till they attained “the proper relish of Billingsgate”; but now they are imported commonly full-grown, and laid down near their markets, at Boston and elsewhere, where the water, being a mixture of salt and fresh, suits them better.  The business was said to be still good and improving.

The old man said that the oysters were liable to freeze in the winter, if planted too high; but if it were not “so cold as to strain their eyes,” they were not injured.  The inhabitants of New Brunswick have noticed that “ice will not form over an oyster-bed, unless the cold is very intense indeed; and when the bays are frozen over, the oyster-beds are easily discovered by the water above them remaining unfrozen, or, as the French residents say, degele.”  Our host said that they kept them in cellars all winter.

“Without anything to eat or drink?” I asked.