The anecdote told in the last chapter revived my uncle's recollection
of several instances of my early impetuosity; among which was a
rencounter with Lord Byron, while that poet was residing at his villa
on the slope of Monte Negro near Leghorn, which he took the liberty to
narrate to Mr. Gray.
A commercial house at that port, in which my uncle had some interest,
was the noble lord's banker;--and, one day, while my relative and the
poet were inspecting some boxes recently arrived from Greece, I was
dispatched to see them safely deposited in the warehouse. Suddenly,
Lord Byron demanded a pencil. My uncle had none with him, but
remembering that I had lately been presented one in a handsome silver
case, requested the loan of it. Now, as this was my first _silver_
possession, I was somewhat reluctant to let it leave my possession
even for a moment, and handed it to his lordship with a bad grace.
When the poet had made his memorandum, he paused a moment, as if lost
in thought, and then very unceremoniously--but, doubtless, in a fit of
abstraction--put the pencil in his pocket. If I had already visited
America at that time, it is likely that I would have warned the
Englishman of his mistake on the spot; but, as children in the Old
World are rather more curbed in their intercourse with elders than on
this side of the Atlantic, I bore the forgetfulness as well as I could
until next morning. Summoning all my resolution, I repaired without my
uncle's knowledge to the poet's house at an early hour, and after much
difficulty was admitted to his room. He was still in bed. Every body
has heard of Byron's peevishness, when disturbed or intruded on. He
demanded my business in a petulant and offensive tone. I replied,
respectfully, that on the preceding day I loaned him a _silver_
pencil,--strongly emphasizing and repeating the word _silver_,--which,
I was grieved to say, he forgot to return. Byron reflected a moment,
and then declared he had restored it to me on the spot! I mildly but
firmly denied the fact; while his lordship as sturdily reasserted it.
In a short time, we were both in such a passion that Byron commanded
me to leave the room. I edged out of the apartment with the slow,
defying air of angry boyhood; but when I reached the door, I suddenly
turned, and looking at him with all the bitterness I felt for his
nation, called him, in French, "an English hog!" Till then our quarrel
had been waged in Italian. Hardly were the words out of my mouth when
his lordship leaped from the bed, and in the scantiest drapery
imaginable, seized me by the collar, inflicting such a shaking as I
would willingly have exchanged for a tertian ague from the Pontine
marshes. The sudden air-bath probably cooled his choler, for, in a few
moments, we found ourselves in a pacific explanation about the
luckless pencil. Hitherto I had not mentioned my uncle; but the moment
I stated the relationship, Byron became pacified and credited my
story. After searching his pockets once more ineffectually for the
lost _silver_, he presented me his own _gold_ pencil instead, and
requested me to say why I "cursed him _in French_?"
"My father was a Frenchman, my lord," said I.
"And your mother?"
"She is an Italian, sir."
"Ah! no wonder, then, you called me an 'English hog.' The hatred runs
in the blood; you could not help it."
After a moment's hesitation, he continued,--still pacing the apartment
in his night linen,--"You don't like the English, do you, my boy?"
"No," said I, "I don't."
"Why?" returned Byron, quietly.
"Because my father died fighting them," replied I.
"Then, youngster, you have _a right_ to hate them," said the poet, as
he put me gently out of the door, and locked it on the inside.
A week after, one of the porters of my uncle's warehouse offered to
sell, at an exorbitant price, what he called "Lord Byron's pencil,"
declaring that his lordship had presented it to him. My uncle was on
the eve of bargaining with the man, when he perceived his own initials
on the silver. In fact, it was my lost gift. Byron, in his
abstraction, had evidently mistaken the porter for myself; so the
servant was rewarded with a trifling gratuity, while my _virtuoso_
uncle took the liberty to appropriate the golden relic of Byron to
himself, and put me off with the humbler remembrance of his honored
name.
These, however, are episodes. Let us return once more to the Galatea
and her worthy commander.
Captain Towne retired to Salem after the hands were discharged, and
took me with him to reside in his family until he was ready for
another voyage. In looking back through the vista of a stormy and
adventurous life, my memory lights on no happier days than those spent
in this sea-faring emporium. Salem, in 1821, was my paradise. I
received more kindness, enjoyed more juvenile pleasures, and found
more affectionate hospitality in that comfortable city than I can well
describe. Every boy was my friend. No one laughed at my broken
English, but on the contrary, all seemed charmed by my foreign accent.
People thought proper to surround me with a sort of romantic mystery,
for, perhaps, there was a flavor of the dashing dare-devil in my
demeanor, which imparted influence over homelier companions. Besides
this, I soon got the reputation of a scholar. I was considered a
marvel in languages, inasmuch as I spoke French, Italian, Spanish,
English, and _professed_ a familiarity with Latin. I remember there
was a wag in Salem, who, determining one day to test my acquaintance
with the latter tongue, took me into a neighboring druggist's, where
there were some Latin volumes, and handed me one with the request to
translate a page, either verbally or on paper. Fortunately, the book
he produced was AEsop, whose fables had been so thoroughly studied by
me two years before, that I even knew some of them by heart. Still,
as I was not very well versed in the niceties of English, I thought it
prudent to make my version of the selected fable in French; and, as
there was a neighbor who knew the latter language perfectly, my
translation was soon rendered into English, and the proficiency of the
"Italian boy" conceded.
* * * * *
I sailed during five years from Salem on voyages to various parts of
the world, always employing my leisure, while on shore and at sea, in
familiarizing myself minutely with the practical and scientific
details of the profession to which I designed devoting my life. I do
not mean to narrate the adventures of those early voyages, but I
cannot help setting down a single anecdote of that fresh and earnest
period, in order to illustrate the changes that time and
"_circumstances_" are said to work on human character.
In my second voyage to India, I was once on shore with the captain at
Quallahbattoo, in search of pepper, when a large _proa_, or Malay
canoe, arrived at the landing crammed with prisoners, from one of the
islands. The unfortunate victims were to be sold _as slaves_. They
were the _first slaves_ I had seen! As the human cargo was
disembarked, I observed one of the Malays dragging a handsome young
female by the hair along the beach. Cramped by long confinement in the
wet bottom of the canoe, the shrieking girl was unable to stand or
walk. My blood was up quickly. I ordered the brute to desist from his
cruelty; and, as he answered with a derisive laugh, I felled him to
the earth with a single blow of my boat-hook. This impetuous
vindication of humanity forced us to quit Quallahbattoo in great
haste; but, at the age of seventeen, my feelings in regard to slavery
were very different from what this narrative may disclose them to have
become in later days.
When my apprenticeship was over, I made two or three successful
voyages as mate, until--I am ashamed to say,--that a "disappointment"
caused me to forsake my employers, and to yield to the temptations of
reckless adventure. This sad and early blight overtook me at
Antwerp,--a port rather noted for the backslidings of young seamen.
My hard-earned pay soon diminished very sensibly, while I was
desperately in love with a Belgian beauty, who made a complete fool of
me--for at least three months! From Antwerp, I betook myself to Paris
to vent my second "disappointment." The pleasant capital of _la belle
France_ was a cup that I drained at a single draught. Few young men of
eighteen or twenty have lived faster. The gaming tables at Frascati's
and the Palais Royal finished my consumptive purse; and, leaving an
empty trunk as a recompense for my landlord, I took "French leave" one
fine morning, and hastened to sea.
The reader will do me the justice to believe that nothing but the
direst necessity compelled me to embark on board a _British_ vessel,
bound to Brazil. The captain and his wife who accompanied him, were
both stout, handsome Irish people, of equal age, but addicted to
fondness for strong and flavored drinks.
My introduction on board was signalized by the ceremonious bestowal
upon me of the key of the spirit-locker, with a strict injunction from
the commander to deny more than three glasses daily either to his wife
or himself. I hardly comprehended this singular order at first, but,
in a few days, I became aware of its propriety. About eleven o'clock
her ladyship generally approached when I was serving out the men's
ration of gin, and requested me to fill her tumbler. Of course, I
gallantly complied. When I returned from deck below with the bottle,
she again required a similar dose, which, with some reluctance, I
furnished. At dinner the dame drank _porter_, but passed off the gin
on her credulous husband as water. This system of deception continued
as long as the malt liquor lasted, so that her ladyship received and
swallowed daily a triple allowance of capital grog. Indeed, it is
quite astonishing what quantities of the article can sometimes be
swallowed by sea-faring _women_. The oddness of their appetite for the
cordials is not a little enhanced by the well-known aversion the sex
have to spirituous fluids, in every shape, on shore. Perhaps the salt
air may have something to do with the acquired relish; but, as I am
not composing an essay on temperance, I shall leave the discussion to
wiser physiologists.
My companions' indulgence illustrated another diversity between the
sexes, which I believe is historically true from the earliest records
to the present day. _The lady_ broke her rule, but _the captain_
adhered faithfully to his. Whilst on duty, the allotted three glasses
completed his potations. But when we reached Rio de Janeiro, and there
was no longer need of abstinence, save for the sake of propriety, both
my shipmates gave loose to their thirst and tempers. They drank,
quarrelled, and kissed, with more frequency and fervor than any
creatures it has been my lot to encounter throughout an adventurous
life. After we got the vessel into the inner harbor,--though not
without a mishap, owing to the captain's drunken stubbornness,--my
Irish friends resolved to take lodgings for a while on shore. For two
days they did not make their appearance; but toward the close of the
third, they returned, "fresh," as they said, "from the theatre." It
was very evident that the jolly god had been their companion; and, as
I was not a little scandalized by the conjugal scenes which usually
closed these frolics, I hastened to order tea under the awning on
deck, while I betook myself to a hammock which was slung on the main
boom. Just as I fell off into pleasant dreams, I was roused from my
nap by a prelude to the opera. Madame gave her lord the lie direct. A
loaf of bread, discharged against her head across the table, was his
reply. Not content with this harmless demonstration of rage, he seized
the four corners of the table-cloth, and gathering the tea-things and
food in the sack, threw the whole overboard into the bay. In a flash,
the tigress fastened on his scanty locks with one hand, while, with
the other, she pummelled his eyes and nose. Badly used as he was, I
must confess that the captain proved too generous to retaliate on that
portion of his spouse where female charms are most bewitching and
visible; still, I am much mistaken if the sound spanking she received
did not elsewhere leave marks of physical vigor that would have been
creditable to a pugilist.
It was remarkable that these human tornados were as violent and brief
as those which scourge tropical lands as well as tropical characters.
In a quarter of an hour there was a dead calm. The silence of the
night, on those still and star-lit waters, was only broken by a sort
of chirrup, that might have been mistaken for a cricket, but which I
think was _a kiss_. Indeed, I was rapidly going off again to sleep,
when I was called to give the key of the spirit-locker,--a glorious
resource that never failed as a solemn seal of reconciliation and
bliss.
Next morning, before I awoke, the captain went ashore, and when his
wife, at breakfast, inquired my knowledge of the night's affray, my
gallantry forced me to confess that I was one of the soundest sleepers
on earth or water, and, moreover, that I was surprised to learn there
had been the least difference between such happy partners. In spite of
my simplicity, the lady insisted on confiding her griefs, with the
assurance that she would not have been half so angry had not her
spouse foolishly thrown her silver spoons into the sea, with the bread
and butter. She grew quite eloquent on the pleasures of married life,
and told me of many a similar reproof she had been forced to give her
husband during their voyages. It did him good, she said, and kept him
wholesome. In fact, she hoped, that if ever I married, I would have
the luck to win a guardian like herself. Of course, I was again most
gallantly silent. Still, I could not help reserving a decision as to
the merits of matrimony; for present appearances certainly did not
demonstrate the bliss I had so often read and heard of. At any rate, I
resolved, that if ever I ventured upon a trial of love, it should, at
least, in the first instance, be love _without_ liquor!
On our return to Europe we called at Dover for orders, and found that
Antwerp was our destination. We made sail at sunset, but as the wind
was adverse and the weather boisterous, we anchored for two days in
the Downs. At length, during a lull of the gale, we sailed for the
mouth of the Scheldt; but, as we approached the coast of Holland, the
wind became light and baffling, so that we were unable to enter the
river. We had not taken a pilot at Ramsgate, being confident of
obtaining one off Flushing. At sundown, the storm again arose in all
its fury from the north-west; but all attempts to put back to England
were unavailing, for we dared not show a rag of sail before the
howling tempest. It was, indeed, a fearful night of wind, hail,
darkness, and anxiety. At two o'clock in the morning, we suddenly
grounded on one of the numerous banks off Flushing. Hardly had we
struck when the sea made a clean sweep over us, covering the decks
with sand, and snapping the spars like pipe-stems. The captain was
killed instantly by the fall of a top-gallant yard, which crushed his
skull; while the sailors, who in such moments seem possessed by utter
recklessness, broke into the spirit-room and drank to excess. For
awhile I had some hope that the stanchness of our vessel's hull might
enable us to cling to her till daylight, but she speedily bilged and
began to fill.
After this it would have been madness to linger. The boats were still
safe. The long one was quickly filled by the crew, under the command
of the second mate--who threw an anker of gin into the craft before he
leaped aboard,--while I reserved the jolly-boat for myself, the
captain's widow, the cook, and the steward. The long-boat was never
heard of.
All night long that dreadful nor'wester howled along and lashed the
narrow sea between England and the Continent; yet I kept our frail
skiff before it, hoping, at daylight, to descry the lowlands of
Belgium. The heart-broken woman rested motionless in the stern-sheets.
We covered her with all the available garments, and, even in the midst
of our own griefs, could not help feeling that the suddenness of her
double desolation had made her perfectly unconscious of our dreary
surroundings.
Shortly after eight o'clock a cry of joy announced the sight of land
within a short distance. The villagers of Bragden, who soon descried
us, hastened to the beach, and rushing knee deep into the water,
signalled that the shore was safe after passing the surf. The sea was
churned by the storm into a perfect foam. Breakers roared, gathered,
and poured along like avalanches. Still, there was no hope for us but
in passing the line of these angry sentinels. Accordingly, I watched
the swell, and pulling firmly, bow on, into the first of the breakers,
we spun with such arrowy swiftness across the intervening space, that
I recollect nothing until we were clasped in the arms of the brawny
Belgians on the beach.
But, alas! the poor widow was no more. I cannot imagine when she died.
During the four hours of our passage from the wreck to land, her head
rested on my lap; yet no spasm of pain or convulsion marked the moment
of her departure.
That night the parish priest buried the unfortunate lady, and
afterwards carried round a plate, asking alms,--not for masses to
insure the repose of her soul,--but to defray the expenses of _the
living_ to Ostend.