When we embark on the ocean, we are astonished at its immensity, bounded
only by the horizon, with not a speck of land, a solitary rock, or
landmark of any description, to guide the adventurers cast adrift on
its broad surface, with "water, water, every where;" and when we see its
face agitated by storms, and listen to the thunder of its billows, and
reflect on its uncertain and mysterious character, and on the dangers
with which it has been associated in every age, we wonder at the courage
and enterprise of those early navigators, strangers to science,
who dared embark on the waste of waters in vessels of the frailest
construction, to explore the expanse of ocean and make discovery of,
"New lands,
Rivers and mountains on the spotted globe."
Even familiarity with the sea, which has become the great highway
of nations, does not diminish its sublimity, its wild beauties, its
grandeur, and the terrible power of its wrath.
The immensity of the sea, notwithstanding its surface has been
traversed and measured by thousands of voyagers for centuries, fills the
contemplative mind with awe, as a wonderful creation of Almighty Power.
One can hardly realize its vast extent from figures and calculations,
without sailing over its surface and witnessing its immensity, as day
after day passes away, the cry being still "onward, onward!" and the
view bounded on every side by the distant horizon.
On gazing down into its depths, when not a breath of wind sweeps over
its surface, when its face is like a polished mirror, we find the water
almost as transparent as the air we breathe, yet the keenest optics
can penetrate but a few fathoms below the surface. The movements, the
operations instinct with life, that are constantly taking place in that
body of water, and the mighty changes which are going on in the vast
tract of earth on which it reposes, are invisible to mortal eye.
Within a few years, the progress of scientific knowledge has enabled man
to measure the depths of the ocean, which were formerly believed to be
as unfathomable as boundless in extent. From soundings which have been
taken, it is ascertained that the configuration of the earth at the
bottom of the sea, is similar to that portion which rises above the
surface, undulating, and interspersed with hills, and valleys, and
plains, and mountain ranges, and abrupt precipices. The greatest depth
of water at which soundings have been obtained, being between five and
six miles, is deeper than the altitude of the highest mountain of which
we have knowledge; and there may be cavities of far greater depth.
Geological researches prove that at an early period of the history of
the earth its surface was vastly more irregular than at the present
time. Not only the mountains on the earth were higher, but the deepest
valleys of ocean were far deeper. Disintegrations caused by exposure to
water or the atmosphere, and abrasions from causes with which we may not
be familiar, have lowered the mountain tops, and created deposits which
raise the plains and fill the deepest chasms. And here geologists find
the origin of the earliest formation of stratified rocks.
Men have striven in vain to develop the secrets which lie hidden in
the sea. Imagination has been at work for ages, and in some cases has
pictured the bottom of ocean as a sort of marine paradise, a nautical
Eden, with charming grottoes, spacious gardens, coral forests, ridges of
golden sands, and heaps of precious gems; and abounding in inhabitants
with fairy forms, angelic features, and other attributes corresponding
with the favored region in which they flourish, who sometimes rise to
the surface of ocean, and seated on the craggy rocks, sing sweet ballads
to charm away the life of the unwary mariner. Leyden, a Scottish poet,
imagines one of these charming denizens of the deep to describe, in the
following poetic language, the attractions of this submarine world:
"How sweet, when billows heave their head,
And shake their arrowy crests on high,
Serene, in Ocean's sapphire bed,
Beneath the trembling surge to lie!
"To trace with tranquil step the deep,
Where pearly drops of frozen dew,
In concave shells, unconscious sleep,
Or shine with lustre, silvery blue.
"Then shall the summer's sun from far
Pour through the waves a softer ray,
While diamonds, in a bower of spar,
At eve shall shed a brighter day."
Others, however, with fancies equally vigorous, but less ornate
or refined, give us different sketches of the doings in Neptune's
dominions. They picture the bottom of ocean as un uninviting spot,
replete with objects calculated to chill the blood and sadden the
heart of man; inhabited by beings of a character rather repulsive than
prepossessing, as salt-water satyrs, krakens, polypuses, and marine
monsters of frightful aspects and hideous habits; glimpses of which
are occasionally seen by favored inhabitants of these upper regions,
sometimes in the shape of monstrous sea-serpents, with flowing manes
and goggle eyes, lashing with their tails the astonished waters of
Massachusetts Bay.
In "Clarence's Dream: we find Shakespeare's idea of the sights exhibited
far down beneath the ocean waves:
"Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl;
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels;
All scattered in the bottom of the sea.
Some lay in dead men's skulls!"
Although man can fathom the depths of the sea, and may by scientific
experiments, conducted with immense labor and expense, succeed in
mapping out the great ocean basins, and obtaining an accurate idea
of the configuration of that part of the earth which lies beneath
the waters, yet the true character of the scenery, vegetation,
and inhabitants of that region must remain unknown until some new
philosophical and mechanical principles shall be discovered to pave the
way to a system of submarine navigation, and the enterprise confided to
some daring Yankee, with the promise of an exclusive patent right to its
use for a century to come.
In the mean time we may rest assured that no valuable gems or lumps of
gold have yet been brought up by the plummet. Indeed, so far as is shown
by the soundings, the bottom of the ocean is covered with microscopic
shells, so wonderfully minute that thousands may be counted on the
surface of a single square inch. We know also that the bed of ocean, for
at least four hundred years, has served as a repository, a burial-place,
not only for earth's choicest productions and myriads of human beings,
gone to the bottom in sunken ships, but for disappointed hopes, false
calculations, and sanguine schemes for the realization of fortune and
honor.
The immensity, the majesty, and the wonders of the sea are manifest,
and acknowledged by all. But what can surpass its beauty when in repose!
What scene can be more sublimely beautiful than the sea when gazed upon
from the mast-head of a ship, gliding along as if impelled by the breath
of a fairy! Every thing in the vicinity, as well as the vast expanse
stretching out on every side, is calculated to inspire confidence,
invite security, and give complete reliance on its gentle and pacific
character. While enjoying the delightful scene, the passions are hushed.
The sea seems the blest abode of tranquillity. We are alive only to its
beauty, its grace, its magnitude, its power to interest and charm, to
benefit mankind and beautify the world.
And how calmly beautiful is the close of day! What nameless charms
cluster around a sunset at sea! The heavens and light clouds are not
clad in purple and gold; but the western sky is attractive and lovely
in the richness of its sober brilliancy. The sun, with undivided
glory, goes down in the west, sinking gently and gradually beneath the
well-defined horizon, like the spirit of a good man in the evening of
life, departing for a better world.
Night drops her curtain only to change the scene and invest it with
holier attributes. The moon sheds her light on the surface of the ocean.
No sounds break the stillness of the hour as the ship, urged by the
favored breeze, quietly, yet perseveringly, pursues her course, save the
murmuring ripple of the waves, the measured tread of the officer of the
watch as he walks the deck, the low, half-stifled creaking of a block as
if impatient of inactivity, the occasional flap of a sail awakened out
of its sleep, and the stroke of the bell every half hour to mark the
lapse of time, sending its musical, ringing notes far over the water.
What a time is this for study, for contemplation, for enjoyment! The
poet Gilfillan, in describing a lovely night at sea, says, with true
poetic warmth and energy,
"Night closed around the ship; no sound
Save of the splashing sea
Was heard. The waters all around
Murmured so pleasantly,
You would have thought the mermaids sung
Down in their coral caves,
So softly and so sweetly rang
The music of the waves!"
Were such scenes always met with at sea, was its surface always smooth,
the winds favorable and the sky unclouded, little resolution or physical
endurance would be required to navigate the ocean; the energies which
call THE SAILOR into life would no longer be necessary; the sea would be
covered with pleasure yachts of the most fanciful description, manned by
exquisites in snow-white gloves, propelled with silken sails, and decked
with streamers, perhaps with flowers, while their broad decks would be
thronged with a gay and happy bevy, of both sexes and every age, bent on
pleasure and eager to enjoy the beauties of the sea.
But this attractive spectacle is sometimes changed with magical
rapidity! The scene shifts; and instead of gentle zephyrs and smooth
seas, the elements pour forth all their pent-up wrath on the devoted
ship, and events are conjured into being which rouse into action the
noblest faculties of man. If the records of the sea were truly kept,
they would tell of hurricanes, shipwrecks, sufferings, and perils too
numerous and appalling to be imagined, to struggle successfully against
which demands those manifestations of courage and energy, that,
when witnessed on the land, elicit the admiration of mankind. These
chronicles, if faithfully kept, would tell of desperate encounters, of
piracies where whole crews were massacred, of dark deeds of cruelty and
oppression, of pestilence on shipboard, without medical aid and with no
Florence Nightingale to soothe the pains and whisper comfort and peace
to the dying!
And what may be said of the mariners, the life-long actors on this
strange, eventful theatre, the sea, who perform their unwritten and
unrecorded parts, face danger and death in every shape, and are heard
and seen no more? Is it remarkable that, estranged from the enjoyments
which cluster around the most humble fireside, and familiar with scenes
differing so widely from those met with on the land, they should acquire
habits peculiar to themselves and form a character of their own?
The failings of this isolated class of men are well known; a catalogue
of their imperfections is scattered abroad by every wind that blows;
they are acknowledged, even by themselves, and enlarged upon and
exaggerated by those who know them not. True are the words of the poet,
"Men's evil manners live in brass;
Their virtues we write in water."
Those who are familiar with a seafaring life, and have had opportunities
for analyzing the character of the sailor, know that it possesses many
brilliant spots as well as blemishes, and that it would be cruel and
unjust on the part of those more favored with the smiles of fortune, to
steel their hearts against sympathy for his sufferings, or respect for
his intrinsic worth.
The sailor is said to be rough and unpolished, as well as addicted to
vices. It is true he is seldom a proficient in classical studies, or
versed in the logic of the schools. But he is conversant with men and
manners in various parts of the globe, and his habits of life, and
opportunities for observation, supply him with a fund of worldly wisdom
and practical knowledge, which qualify him to render good service when
strong hands and bold hearts are in demand on the land as well as on
the sea. It should be remembered, also, that the sailor has few
opportunities of receiving instruction in polite literature, of learning
lessons of moral culture, and of sharing the pleasures and refinements
of domestic life. The many temptations to which he is exposed should
also be remembered, and it will be found that, with his generous heart
and noble spirit, he is far more worthy of confidence and respect than
the thousands we meet with in society, who, in spite of words of warning
and the example of good men, with every inducement to pursue the path
of rectitude, voluntarily embrace a life of dissipation, consume their
substance in riotous living, and become slaves to habits of a degrading
character.
The same records that tell of stormy passions, profligate habits,
thrilling disasters, and violent deaths on the sea, also chronicle the
manifold deeds of philanthropy, heroism, self-devotion, and patriotism
of those,
"Whose march is on the mountain wave,
Whose home is on the deep!"
Of those who, however rough and unpolished, are ever ready to lend a
protecting hand to the weak, to spend their last dollar in encouraging
the unfortunate or relieving distress, and to risk their lives in
defence of the honor of their country, and the flag which waves over
their heads.
When we look at the hardships, sufferings, and perils of the sailor,
with his few enjoyments and recreations, and consider the services he
renders society, that by his courage and energy we enjoy the countless
advantages of commerce, and that through his means are spread abroad the
blessings of civilization and Christianity, while for HIM "no Sabbath
bell awakes the Sabbath morn," we ought to cherish a sense of gratitude
and indulgence for that class of men "who go down to the sea in ships
and do business on the great waters;" to that class of men to whom we
intrust, with confidence, not only our golden treasures, but our wives
and our children, all which are most dear to us.
So far from despising the character and calling of the sailor, and
regarding him with an eye of distrust, let us throw a veil over his
faults, appreciate his virtues, be ready at all times to give him
words of good cheer, and encourage him to keep within his bosom a clear
conscience and an honest heart. Let us not grudge our influence or mite
in favor of measures to elevate his character and promote his comfort
while sailing over the tempestuous sea of life; or in preparing for his
reception, towards the close of the voyage, when broken down with toil
and suffering, a quiet haven, a SNUG HARBOR, where, safely moored,
secure from storms and troubles, he can calmly await the inevitable
summons aloft.
*****
My task is finished. I have given, in the foregoing pages, a brief, but
strictly truthful, summary of my adventures during a few years of my
early life. It would have been comparatively easy to concoct a series of
incidents far more wild, romantic, and improbable, and, therefore, more
interesting, than any thing contained in this simple narrative. But I
have preferred to give a faithful transcript of events which actually
occurred.
If the tale of my trials, temptations, resources, and enjoyments will
tend to brighten a passing hour of the indulgent reader, throw light
on the character, habits of life, recreations, and perils of the common
sailor; guard an unsuspecting young man against temptations to vice, and
encourage him to exert all his energies, and boldly press forward in
the channel which leads to usefulness and honor; my labors will not have
been in vain, and I shall never regret having attempted to lift a corner
of the curtain, which has for centuries screened from public view, JACK
IN THE FORECASTLE.
The End
End of Project Gutenberg's Jack in the Forecastle, by John Sherburne Sleeper