SYDNEY.—CAPE BRETON.—THE OCEAN.
MONDAY, _June 19, 1859_. We are still rising and sinking on the misty
ocean, and somewhere on those great currents flowing from the Gulf of
St. Lawrence.
Yesterday, at an early hour, we were entering Sydney Harbor, Cape
Breton, with a tide from sea, and a flood of brightness from the sun.
The lively waters, the grassy fields dotted with white dwellings, and
the dark green woodlands were bathed in splendor. A few clouds, that
might have floated away from the cotton-fields of Alabama, kept Sunday
in the quiet heavens. We went ashore with some thought of attending
church, but found the time would not permit. A short walk to some Indian
huts, with the smoke curling up from their peaks like the pictures of
volcanoes, a cup of tea of our own making, some toast and fresh eggs in
the village tavern, with the comfort of sitting to enjoy them at a
steady table on firm land, gave an agreeable seasoning to the hour we
lingered in Sydney, and braced us for the long stretch across to
Newfoundland.
As you enter Sydney Bay, you see northward some remarkable cliffs,
fan-like in shape as they rise from the sea. In the clear and brilliant
morning air, they had a roseate and almost flame-like hue, which made
them appear very beautiful. I thought of them as some gigantic
sea-shells placed upon the brim of the blue main. When they set in the
waves, along in the afternoon, the picturesque coast of Cape Breton was
lost to view, and we became, to all appearance, a fixture in the centre
of the circle made by the sky and the sea. How wearisome it grew! Always
moving forward,—yet never getting further from the line behind,—never
getting nearer to the line before,—ever in the centre of the circle.
The azure dome was over us, its pearl-colored eaves all around us. Oh!
that some power would lift its edge, all dripping with the brine of
centuries, out of the ocean, and let the eye peep under! But all is
changeless. We were under the centre of the dome, and on the hub of the
great wheel, run out upon its long spokes as rapidly and persistently as
we would. Our stiff ship was dashing, breast-deep, through the green and
purple banks that old Neptune heaved up across our path. Bank after bank
he rolled up before us, and our strong bows burst them all, striking
foam, snowy foam, out of them by day, and liquid jewelry out of them by
night. The circle was still around us, the tip of the dome above. We
were leaving half a world of things, and approaching half a world of
things, and yet we were that same fixture. Our brave motions, after all,
turned out to be a kind of writhing on a point, in the middle of the
mighty ring, under the key-stone of the marvellous vault. The comfort of
the weary time was, that we sailed away from the morning, passed under
the noon, and came up with, and cut through the evening.
When we caught up with the evening yesterday, and saw the sun set fire
to, and burn off that everlasting ring, we were sitting quietly on deck,
touched with the sweet solemnities of the hallowed hour. The night, with
all that it would bring us, was coming out of the east, moving up its
stupendous shadow over the ocean; the day, with all it had been to us,
was leaving us, going off into the west over the great continent. We
were crossing the twilight, that narrow, lonesome, neutral ground, where
gloom and splendor interlock and wrestle. The little petrel piped his
feeble notes, and flew close up, following under the very feathers of
the ship, now skimming the glassy hollow of the swells, and then tiptoe
on the crest. The wind was strengthening, tuning every cord and
straining every sail, winnowing the fiery chaff, and sowing the
sparkling grain forward on the furrowed waters. We had a vessel full of
wind; and so vessel, wind and sparks together, went away across the sea
as if they were seeking some grand rendezvous. Far and wide the waves
all hastened in the same direction, rolling, leaping, crumbling into
foam, bristling the snowy feathers on neck and breast as they skipped
and flew upon each other in their play and passion. And so we all sped
forward with one will, and with one step, keeping time to the music of
the mighty band: clouds, winds and billows, seabirds, sails and
sparkling smoke, and Merlin with her men; all moving forward, as some
grand army moves onward to a battle-field. When there is really nothing
to describe, why should not one record the conceits and fancies born of
an evening at sea? So I thought, last evening, when I was a little
sea-sick, and sick of the monotony of the scene, and a little home-sick,
and felt that this was pleasure rather dearly bought. Still if one would
see the planet upon which he has taken his passage round the sun, and
through the spaces of the universe, he must be brave and patient,
hopeful and good-tempered. Be this, or turn back, at the first view of
salt-water, and go home to toil, to contentment and self-possession.