Portsmouth, October 31.
Still at Portsmouth, and the Ulysses not yet come round from the Thames!
Some troops were embarked on the 27th inst. from this place. The weather
was rough and unfavorable. Such indeed has it, constantly, been, since
our arrival—always stormy, and, at times, tempestuous. From this state
of the weather we have had the opportunity of seeing this great maritime
port to much advantage; a degree of grandeur being added to the scenery,
which, in a more tranquil season, would not have existed. The general
movement and activity have been, necessarily, increased; we have heard
the deep roaring of the billows, and have listened to the howling of the
wind, and the beating of the storm among the shipping; the troubled
waves have dashed, in heavy seas, upon the land, or broken with
violence, against the rampart-walls; boats and ships have been set
adrift, others have been forced from their anchors and cast on shore;
and that degree of the grand and terrific, necessary to the sublime, has
strongly prevailed.
You expected probably, that my next letter would be addressed to you
from Cork, and will be surprised to find that I am yet remaining here;
but this is among the numberless uncertainties of my present calling.
On the 29th instant it blew a perfect hurricane; like what we read of
as, sometimes, happening in other regions, but unlike all that we are
accustomed to witness in England.
The houses were shaken, to a dangerous degree, by the excessive force of
the tempest. The loud ocean rolled, and broke, in tremendous mountains,
on the shore. Many of the ships were driven from their anchors; some
were dismasted; others cast away; and boats, set loose by the storm,
were swallowed up by the troubled waters, and afterwards returned, by
the expelling throes of the sea, upon dry land.
The hollow sound of the wind, and the heavy beatings of the hail and
rain, through the thick forest of shipping lying in the harbour,
together with the frightful dashings of the sea, and the violent motion
of the vessels, upon its restless surface, all combined to render the
scene greatly awful; but too high a degree of the terrific was
intermixed with it, for the spectator to regard its grandeur and
sublimity in quiet contemplation. To convey any just idea of it would
require the pen of a Milton, or a Shakespeare.
Great and general alarm prevailed, especially among the lower orders of
people; in whose minds a fearful association was excited, which carried
them, infinitely, beyond the probable injuries to be expected. They ran
into the remotest corners of their houses, fearing that some dreadful
visitation of the Almighty was upon them, and that He, in his wrath, was
about to punish their sins, by the destruction of the town, and its
wicked inhabitants. Nothing was heard but the howlings of the tempest.
In all other respects a dreary stillness reigned. No living thing was
seen upon the streets; and all around seemed hushed in the silent pause
of consternation.
When the violence of the storm had a little abated, and the rays of
light began to issue through the broken clouds, the trembling multitude
ventured forth, and, assembling in groups at the door-ways, relieved
their apprehensions by relating them to each other, in the restored
comfort of mutual intercourse. At this moment I could not but remark the
striking effect of the social principle, that great and leading feature
of our nature. If these people had remained alone, shut up in their
hiding-places, their sense of alarm would have probably continued much
longer; but they derived manifest relief from communicating with each
other; and the very act of relating their fears insensibly dispelled
them.
The injuries done were less than might have been expected. Some of the
ships and boats necessarily suffered; a few houses were unroofed; and,
amidst the devastation, the windmill, at Gosport, was blown to the
ground. It was, at first, said that many lives were lost; but, happily,
we do not find this report confirmed.