On Monday morning of last week I started from Norwich, bound to New
London, and from thence to any other portion of the world where I might
have some sport in the way of salt-water fishing. In less than an hour
after landing from the steamboat, I had boarded the handsome smack
Orleans, Captain Keeney, and by dint of much persuasion secured a berth
on board to accompany him on a fishing voyage. In addition to my
previous preparation, I had only to purchase a Guernsey shirt and
tarpaulin; and by the time I was regularly equipped, the sails were
hoisted, and we were on our course for Nantucket. An intimate
acquaintance was soon formed between myself and crew, which consisted of
the master, two sailors, and the cook. The whole time that I spent in
their company was six days, as I reached home on the following Saturday
evening. The incidents that I met with were somewhat new, as a matter of
course, and I employed a few moments of every evening during my absence,
in briefly recording the events of the past day; and that medley I now
put together as a literary chowder.
_Monday Evening._ My observations to-day have been limited to our little
vessel, in consequence of a dense fog, which drenched us to the skin,
and seems likely to continue us in this state of preservation. I have
obtained some information, however, concerning the character of an
interesting class of men, which may be new to you. Smack-fishermen are a
brave, hardy, honest, and simple-hearted race, and as my Captain tells
me, spend nine-tenths of their time “rocked in the cradle of the deep.”
Their vessels, or smacks, are generally of about forty tons burthen; the
number of those which supply New York and Boston with fish is said to be
near a thousand, and they are all at home anywhere on the coast between
the Kennebeck and the Delaware. Of the perils which these fishermen
endure, and the privations they suffer, how little is known or thought
by the great world at large! Yet I believe there is as much genuine
happiness in their lives, as in those of any other class. Their fathers
were fishermen before them, and as they themselves have mostly been born
within hearing of the surf, they look upon the unsounded deep as their
fitting home, their only home, and would not part with it for a palace
or a crown. Four is the usual number of a smack’s crew, and the master
is invariably called a skipper. Most of them are worthy husbands and
fathers, whose families are snugly harbored in some convenient seaport,
with enough and to spare of the good things of life. They are a jovial
set of men, hailing each other upon the ocean as friends, and meeting
upon land as brothers. Each skipper thinks his craft the handsomest and
swiftest that floats, and very exciting are the races they sometimes
run. Their affection for their own vessel is like that of the Arab for
his steed, and like the Arab, too, they have been known even to weep
over the grave of their darling and their pride.
The kinds of fish which they mostly bring to market are shad, salmon,
lobsters, mackerel, cod, bluefish, haddock, blackfish, paugies, bass,
and halibut. The first three are generally purchased of local fisherman,
but all the rest are caught by themselves. The haunts of the blackfish
are rocky reefs, those of the bass and bluefish in the vicinity of sandy
shoals or tide rips, and those of the remainder in about fifteen fathom
water. These are the varieties they capture by way of business, but when
in a frolicsome mood they frequently attack a sword-fish, a shark, or
black whale; and soul-thrilling indeed, and laughable withal, are the
yarns they spin concerning these exploits.
As to their mode of living, while at sea, it is just what it should be,
and what they would have it, although it would be “positively shocking”
to a Bond Street gentleman of leisure. But they always possess a good
appetite, which is what money cannot purchase, and without which the
greatest delicacy in the world would be insipid or loathsome. Fish,
sea-biscuit, corned-beef and pork, potatoes, onions, and pancakes,
constitute their provisions, and what besides these would a reasonable
man desire? It is with a mixture of some of these, that a _chowder_ is
concocted, and where can anything more delicious be found, even at the
tables of the Astor and American? And with these ingredients, moreover,
they manage very well to keep body and soul together, unless a storm on
a rock-bound coast happens to make a sudden separation.
I have just been on deck, and must say that I resume my pen with a
heavier heart. The fog has not dispersed in the least, a regular gale of
wind is blowing from the north, and the waves, seemingly in a revengeful
mood, are tossing our bark about, as if the skipper, like the Ancient
Mariner, had shot another albatros. But like a fearless man, as he is,
he stands at the helm, watching the sails with a steady eye, and the men
with their storm-jackets on are standing by, muttering something about
the coming darkness, and a reef somewhere on our lee. Never before have
I so distinctly understood the force of the Psalmist’s simile, when he
compares a wave to a drunken man reeling to and fro. Both have it in
their power to cause a mighty mischief, and both become exhausted and
perish,—one upon a sandy beach, and the other, sweeping over the
peninsula of time, finds a grave on the shore of oblivion. Heavens! how
the wind whistles, and the waters roar! Aye, but a still small voice
salutes my ear, and I lay me down to sleep, with a prayer upon my lips,
and a feeling of security at my heart, as I place implicit confidence in
Him who holdeth the ocean in the hollow of his hand.
_Tuesday Evening._ I was awakened out of a deep sleep this morning by
the following salutation from the skipper, as he patted me on the
shoulder. “It’s a beautiful morning, and you ought to be up,—the fog is
gone, and the wind is down; won’t you come up and take the helm
awhile,—so that the boys and I may obtain a little sleep before reaching
the fishing-ground, which will be about ten o’clock?” I was delighted to
accept the invitation, and in a very short time the sailors were asleep,
and I in my new station, proud as a king, and happy as a sinless boy.
And oh that I could describe the scene that fascinated my eyes as I lay
there upon the deck, with one arm reposing on the rudder, and my other
hand grasping a Claude glass! I felt as I once felt before, when
standing on the famous precipice of Niagara, that then, more than ever,
I desired God to be my friend. I also felt, that if the world did not
demand the feeble services of my life, I should wish to remain upon the
ocean forever, provided I could have “one fair being for my minister.”
More earnestly than ever did I long for a complete mastery of my art.
The fact of being out sight of land, where the blue element announced
that the ocean was soundless, filled my soul with that “lone, lost
feeling,” which is supposed to be the eagle’s, when journeying to the
zenith of the sky. The sun had just risen above the waves, and the whole
Eastern portion of the heavens was flooded with the most exquisite
coloring I ever beheld,—from the deepest crimson to the faintest and
most delicate purple, from the darkest yellow to an almost invisible
green; and all blended, too, in a myriad of forms of marvellous
loveliness. A reflection of this scene was also visible in the remaining
quarters of the horizon. Around me the illimitable deep, whose bosom is
studded with many a gallant and glittering ship,
that have the plain
Of ocean for their own domain.
The waves are lulling themselves to rest, and a balmy breeze is
wandering by, as if seeking its old grandfather, who kicked up the grand
rumpus last night; whereby I learn, that the offspring of a “rough and
stormy sire,” are sometimes very beautiful and affectionate to the
children of men. But look, even the dwellers in the sea and of the sea
are participating in the hilarity of this bright autumnal morning! Here,
a school of herring are skipping along like a frolicsome party of
vagabonds as they are,—and yonder a shark has leaped out of the water,
to display the symmetry of his form and the largeness of his jaw, and
looking as if he thought “that land lubber would make me a first-rate
breakfast;” there, a lot of porpoises are playing “leap-frog,” or some
other _outlandish_ game; and, a little beyond them, a gentleman
sword-fish is swaggering along to parts unknown, to fight a duel in cold
blood with some equally cold-blooded native of the Atlantic; and now, a
flock of gulls are cleaving their course to the South, to the floating
body perhaps of a drowned mariner, which their sagacity has discovered a
league or two away,—and now, again, I notice a flock of petrels,
hastening onward to where the winds blow and the waves are white. Such
are the pictures I beheld in my brief period of command. It may have
been but fancy, but I thought my little vessel was trying to eclipse her
former beauty and her former speed. One thing I know, that she “walked
the water like a thing of life.” I fancied, too, that I was the
identical last man whom Campbell saw in his vision, and that I was then
bound to the haven of eternal rest. But my shipmates returning from the
land of Nod, and a certain clamor within my own body having caught my
ear, I became convinced that to break my fast would make me happier than
anything else just at that time, and I was soon as contented as an
alderman at five P. M. About two hours after this we reached our fishing
place, which was twenty miles east of Nantucket. We then lowered the jib
and topsail, and having luffed and fastened the mainsheet, so that the
smack could easily float, we hauled out our lines and commenced fishing,
baiting our hooks with clams, of which we had some ten bushels on board.
Cod fishing (for we were on a codding cruize) is rather dull sport; it
is, in fact, what I would call hard labor. In six hours we had caught
all the skipper wanted, or that the well would hold, so we made sail
again, bound to New York; and at supper-time the deck of our smack was
as clean and dry, as if it had never been pressed save by the feet of
ladies. At sunset, however, a fierce southerly wind sprang up, so that
we were compelled to make a harbor; and just as I am closing this
record, we are anchoring at Nantucket, with a score of storm-beaten
whales on our starboard bow.
_Wednesday Evening._ The weather to-day has been quite threatening, and
the skipper thought it best to remain at our moorings; but with me the
day has not been devoid of interest; for, in my sailor garb, I have been
strolling about the town, studying the great and solemn drama of life,
while playfully acting a subordinate part myself. This morning, as it
happened, I went into the public grave-yard, and spent an hour conning
over the rude inscriptions to the memory of the departed. In that city
of the dead I saw a number of the living walking to and fro, but there
was one who attracted my particular attention. He was a seaman of noble
presence, seated upon an unmarked mound, with his feet resting upon a
smaller one beside it, his head reclined upon one hand, while the other
was occasionally passed across his face, as if wiping away a tear. I
hailed him with a few kind questions, and my answer was the following
brief tale.
“Yes, sir, four years ago I shipped aboard that whaler yonder, leaving
behind me, in a sweet little cottage of my own, a dear, first-rate
mother, a good wife, and an only boy. They were all in the enjoyment of
good health, and happy; and, when we were under sail, and I saw from the
mast-head how kindly they waved their handkerchiefs beside my door, I
too was happy, even in my hour of grief. Since that time I have
circumnavigated the globe, and every rare curiosity I could obtain was
intended for my darling ones at home. Last Saturday our ship returned.
And while yet a league from port, I was again at the mast head, looking
with an anxious heart towards my nest upon the shore. I saw that the
blinds were closed, and that all around was very still; but ‘they are
only gone a visiting,’ thought I, and rejoiced at heart. I landed, flew
to my dwelling, and found it locked. The flagging in my yard attracted
my notice, and I thought it strange that the rank grass had been
suffered to grow over it so thickly. The old minister passed by my gate,
and running to him with extended hand, I inquired for my family. ‘Oh Mr.
B.,’ said he, ‘you must bless the Lord,—he gave them to you, and he hath
taken them away.’ And as the thought stole into my brain, my suffering,
Sir, was intense, and I longed to die. And there they are, my wife and
darling child, and, a step or two beyond, my dear old mother. Peace to
their memories. As for me, I am a victim to blight and desolation, and
that sacred song which my mother used to be so fond of singing on
Sabbath evenings long ago, that song I can understand now:—
‘I would not live alway; I ask not to stay
Where storm after storm rises dark o’er the way;
The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here,
Are enough for life’s woes, full enough for its cheer.’
In a few days I mean to deliver up my property to the Seaman’s Friend
Society, and then launching upon the deep once more, become, and
forever, a wanderer from my native land.”
Such is the simple story I heard in the Nantucket grave-yard, and I have
pondered much upon the world of woe which must be hidden in the breast
of that old mariner. May the tale not have been recorded in vain.
After dinner, to-day, I got into company with some fishermen who were
going after bass and bluefish, and in a short time I had captured, with
my own hands, two big bass and some dozen bluefish,—which I packed in
ice as a present to some New York friends.
At my present time of writing, which is near ten o’clock at night, we
are weighing anchor, and the skipper tells me we shall be in New York by
to-morrow’s sunset. An hour before coming on board this evening, I
lounged into a sailor boarding-house, and mingled as freely with a
company of whalemen there, as if I had ever been a _bonâ fide_ member of
the craft. I heard a great deal that interested me, and was sorry that I
could not remain longer. There were some in that company lately arrived
from every portion of the world, and yet they were engaged in the same
business, and had journeyed on the same mighty highway of nations. One
was descanting upon the coral islands of the Torrid zone, another upon
the ice-mountains of the Arctic Sea, a third was describing the coast of
California, and another the waters that lave the Eastern shore of Asia.
The more I listened to these men the more did the immensity of ocean
expand before my mind, and in the same proportion was I led to wonder at
the wisdom of the Almighty.
I have just been on deck, and find that we are on the way to our desired
haven, wafted by a steady and pleasant breeze. Our course is between
Martha’s Vineyard and Rhode Island, which is a route studded with
islands and seaports, that now appear in the cool starlight like the
pictures of a dream.
_Thursday Evening._ Instead of coming through the Sound last night, we
headed our vessel outside of Long Island, and after a delightful sail
have realized our skipper’s promise, for we are now floating beside the
market in New York. The reason assigned for taking the outside course
was, that the fish would keep better, on account of the greater coldness
of the water. Nothing of peculiar interest has happened to us to-day,
except the meeting with a wreck off Sandy Hook. It was the hull of a
large ship, whose name we could not discern. It had a very old
appearance, and from the moss and sea-weed that covered it, we supposed
it must have been afloat for many months, the plaything of the waves.
“Man marks the earth with ruin,” but who is it that scatters such
splendid ruins upon the ocean? And a thousand thousand remorseless
surges echo back the answer: “To us, belong the glory of those deeds.”
If that wreck had language, what a strange, eventful history would it
reveal! Its themes would be,—home and all its treasures lost; the sea,
and all its dangers; the soul, and all its agonies; the heart, and all
its sufferings. But when we multiply all this as fast as time is
multiplying it, we cannot but realize the idea, that human life is but a
probationary state, and that sorrow and sighing are our earthly
inheritance.
_Friday Evening._ After portioning out my fish this morning, and sending
them to my friends, I put on my usual dress, and having obtained a six
hours’ furlough, set off towards Broadway, where, between the Mercantile
Library reading rooms and the studios of a few artists, I managed to
spend my time quite pleasantly. At noon we embarked for home, and had a
delightful time, passing through the East River, and that pleasing
panorama from the city to the Sound never appeared more beautiful.
It is now quite late, and I have been on deck all the evening alone. In
a thoughtful mood I fixed my eyes upon the stars, and my spirits were
saddened by the continual murmur of the sea. Of what avail, thought I,
is all this excitement? Why was I created, and what, O what is my
destiny? Is it to sail for a few brief years longer upon the ocean of
life, and, when the death-tempest overtakes me, to pass away unloved and
unremembered by a single human heart? If not an honored name, can I not
leave behind me an humble memory, that will be cherished by a few, a
very few, to whom I have laid bare my innermost soul, when I was younger
than I am, and a hundred-fold more happy? What! O night! what is my
destiny? And the tears upon my cheeks were the only answer that I
received,—and I descended into the cabin to my berth, to pray, to
slumber, and to dream.
_Saturday Evening._ We anchored off New London to-day, in time for me to
take the evening steamer for Norwich. When I parted with my “shipmates,”
I shook each one affectionately by the hand, and thought that I might
travel many years without finding a brotherhood of nobler men. I reached
home as the eight o’clock bells were ringing, and was reminded that
another week of precious time was gone, and “another Sabbath was begun.”
That the present must be remembered as an unprofitable week, I cannot
believe, for I feel that my soul has been enlarged, and my heart
humbled, by listening to the teachings of the mighty deep.