Still no prospect of embarkation.--Pen-dennis Castle.--Luxuriant
vegetation.--A serene day.--Anticipations of the voyage.
Falmouth, March 13, 1787.
No prospect of launching this day upon the ocean. Every breeze is
subsided, and a profound calm established. I walk up and down the path
which leads to Pen-dennis Castle with folded arms, in a most listless
desponding mood. Vast brakes of furze, much stouter and loftier than any
with which I am acquainted, scent the air with the perfume of apricots.
Primroses, violets, and fresh herbs innumerable expand on every bank.
Larks, poised in the soft blue sky, warble delightfully. The sea, far
and wide, is covered with fishing-boats; and such a stillness prevails,
that I hear the voices of the fishermen.
You will be rambling in sheltered alleys, whilst winds and currents
drive me furiously along craggy shores, under the scowl of a
tempestuous sky. You will be angling for perch, whilst sharks are
whetting their teeth at me. Methinks I hear the voracious gluttons
disputing the first snap, and pointing upwards their cold slimy noses.
Out upon them! I have no desire to invade their element, or (using
poetical language) to plough those plains of waves which brings them
rich harvests of carcasses, and had much rather cling fast to the green
banks of Pen-dennis. I even prefer mining to sailing; and of the two,
had rather be swallowed up by the earth than the ocean.
I wish some “swart fairy of the mine” would snatch me to her
concealments. Rather than pass a month in the qualms of sea-sickness, I
would consent to live three by candlelight, in the deepest den you could
discover, stuck close to a foul midnight hag as mouldy as a rotten
apple.
This, you will tell me, is being very energetic in my aversions, that I
allow; but such, you know, is my trim, and I cannot help it.