I am fond of passing my vacations (I believe I have said so before) at
one or other of the Universities. Next to these my choice would fix
me at some woody spot, such as the neighbourhood of Henley affords in
abundance, upon the banks of my beloved Thames. But somehow or other
my cousin contrives to wheedle me once in three or four seasons to a
watering place. Old attachments cling to her in spite of experience.
We have been dull at Worthing one summer, duller at Brighton another,
dullest at Eastbourn a third, and are at this moment doing dreary
penance at--Hastings!--and all because we were happy many years ago
for a brief week at--Margate. That was our first sea-side experiment,
and many circumstances combined to make it the most agreeable holyday
of my life. We had neither of us seen the sea, and we had never been
from home so long together in company.
Can I forget thee, thou old Margate Hoy, with thy weather-beaten,
sun-burnt captain, and his rough accommodations--ill exchanged for the
foppery and fresh-water niceness of the modern steam-packet? To the
winds and waves thou committedst thy goodly freightage, and didst
ask no aid of magic fumes, and spells, and boiling cauldrons. With
the gales of heaven thou wentest swimmingly; or, when it was their
pleasure, stoodest still with sailor-like patience. Thy course was
natural, not forced, as in a hot-bed; nor didst thou go poisoning
the breath of ocean with sulphureous smoke--a great sea-chimæra,
chimneying and furnacing the deep; or liker to that fire-god parching
up Scamander.
Can I forget thy honest, yet slender crew, with their coy reluctant
responses (yet to the suppression of anything like contempt, to the
raw questions, which we of the great city would be ever and anon
putting to them, as to the uses of this or that strange naval
implement?) 'Specially can I forget thee, thou happy medium, thou shade
of refuge between us and them, conciliating interpreter of their skill
to our simplicity, comfortable ambassador between sea and land!--whose
sailor-trowsers did not more convincingly assure thee to be an adopted
denizen of the former, than thy white cap, and whiter apron over them,
with thy neat-fingered practice in thy culinary vocation, bespoke thee
to have been of inland nurture heretofore--a master cook of Eastcheap?
How busily didst thou ply thy multifarious occupation, cook, mariner,
attendant, chamberlain; here, there, like another Ariel, flaming at
once about all parts of the deck, yet with kindlier ministrations--not
to assist the tempest, but, as if touched with a kindred sense of our
infirmities, to soothe the qualms which that untried motion might
haply raise in our crude land-fancies. And when the o'er-washing
billows drove us below deck (for it was far gone in October, and we
had stiff and blowing weather) how did thy officious ministerings,
still catering for our comfort, with cards, and cordials, and thy more
cordial conversation, alleviate the closeness and the confinement of
thy else (truth to say) not very savoury, nor very inviting, little
cabin!
With these additaments to boot, we had on board a fellow-passenger,
whose discourse in verity might have beguiled a longer voyage than we
meditated, and have made mirth and wonder abound as far as the Azores.
He was a dark, Spanish complexioned young man, remarkably handsome,
with an officer-like assurance, and an insuppressible volubility of
assertion. He was, in fact, the greatest liar I had met with then,
or since. He was none of your hesitating, half story-tellers (a most
painful description of mortals) who go on sounding your belief, and
only giving you as much as they see you can swallow at a time--the
nibbling pickpockets of your patience--but one who committed
downright, daylight depredations upon his neighbour's faith. He did
not stand shivering upon the brink, but was a hearty thoroughpaced
liar, and plunged at once into the depths of your credulity. I partly
believe, he made pretty sure of his company. Not many rich, not
many wise, or learned, composed at that time the common stowage
of a Margate packet. We were, I am afraid, a set of as unseasoned
Londoners (let our enemies give it a worse name) as Aldermanbury, or
Watling-street, at that time of day could have supplied. There might
be an exception or two among us, but I scorn to make any invidious
distinctions among such a jolly, companionable ship's company, as
those were whom I sailed with. Something too must be conceded to the
_Genius Loci_. Had the confident fellow told us half the legends on
land, which he favoured us with on the other element, I flatter myself
the good sense of most of us would have revolted. But we were in a new
world, with everything unfamiliar about us, and the time and place
disposed us to the reception of any prodigious marvel whatsoever. Time
has obliterated from my memory much of his wild fablings; and the
rest would appear but dull, as written, and to be read on shore. He
had been Aid-de-camp (among other rare accidents and fortunes) to
a Persian prince, and at one blow had stricken off the head of the
King of Carimania on horseback. He, of course, married the Prince's
daughter. I forget what unlucky turn in the politics of that court,
combining with the loss of his consort, was the reason of his quitting
Persia; but with the rapidity of a magician he transported himself,
along with his hearers, back to England, where we still found
him in the confidence of great ladies. There was some story of a
Princess--Elizabeth, if I remember--having intrusted to his care an
extraordinary casket of jewels, upon some extraordinary occasion--but
as I am not certain of the name or circumstance at this distance of
time, I must leave it to the Royal daughters of England to settle the
honour among themselves in private. I cannot call to mind half his
pleasant wonders; but I perfectly remember, that in the course of his
travels he had seen a phoenix; and he obligingly undeceived us of
the vulgar error, that there is but one of that species at a time,
assuring us that they were not uncommon in some parts of Upper Egypt.
Hitherto he had found the most implicit listeners. His dreaming
fancies had transported us beyond the "ignorant present." But when
(still hardying more and more in his triumphs over our simplicity) he
went on to affirm that he had actually sailed through the legs of the
Colossus at Rhodes, it really became necessary to make a stand. And
here I must do justice to the good sense and intrepidity of one of our
party, a youth, that had hitherto been one of his most deferential
auditors, who, from his recent reading, made bold to assure the
gentleman, that there must be some mistake, as "the Colossus in
question had been destroyed long since;" to whose opinion, delivered
with all modesty, our hero was obliging enough to concede thus much,
that "the figure was indeed a little damaged." This was the only
opposition he met with, and it did not at all seem to stagger him, for
he proceeded with his fables, which the same youth appeared to swallow
with still more complacency than ever,--confirmed, as it were, by the
extreme candour of that concession. With these prodigies he wheedled
us on till we came in sight of the Reculvers, which one of our own
company (having been the vogage before) immediately recognising, and
pointing out to us, was considered by us as no ordinary seaman.
All this time sat upon the edge of the deck quite a different
character. It was a lad, apparently very poor, very infirm, and very
patient. His eye was ever on the sea, with a smile: and, if he caught
now and then some snatches of these wild legends, it was by accident,
and they seemed not to concern him. The waves to him whispered more
pleasant stories. He was as one, being with us, but not of us. He
heard the bell of dinner ring without stirring; and when some of
us pulled out our private stores--our cold meat and our salads--he
produced none, and seemed to want none. Only a solitary biscuit he had
laid in; provision for the one or two days and nights, to which these
vessels then were oftentimes obliged to prolong their voyage Upon a
nearer acquaintance with him, which he seemed neither to court nor
decline, we learned that he was going to Margate, with the hope of
being admitted into the Infirmary there for sea-bathing. His disease
was a scrofula, which appeared to have eaten all over him. He
expressed great hopes of a cure; and when we asked him, whether he had
any friends where he was going, he replied, "he _had_ no friends."
These pleasant, and some mournful passages, with the first sight
of the sea, co-operating with youth, and a sense of holydays, and
out-of-door adventure, to me that had been pent up in populous cities
for many months before,--have left upon my mind the fragrance as of
summer days gone by, bequeathing nothing but their remembrance for
cold and wintry hours to chew upon.
Will it be thought a digression (it may spare some unwelcome
comparisons), if I endeavour to account for the _dissatisfaction_
which I have heard so many persons confess to have felt (as I did
myself feel in part on this occasion), _at the sight of the sea for
the first time?_ I think the reason usually given--referring to the
incapacity of actual objects for satisfying our preconceptions of
them--scarcely goes deep enough into the question. Let the same person
see a lion, an elephant, a mountain, for the first time in his life,
and he shall perhaps feel himself a little mortified. The things do
not fill up that space, which the idea of them seemed to take up in
his mind. But they have still a correspondency to his first notion,
and in time grow up to it, so as to produce a very similar impression:
enlarging themselves (if I may say so) upon familiarity. But the sea
remains a disappointment.--Is it not, that in _the latter_ we had
expected to behold (absurdly, I grant, but, I am afraid, by the law of
imagination unavoidably) not a definite object, as those wild beasts,
or that mountain compassable by the eye, but _all the sea at once_,
THE COMMENSURATE ANTAGONIST OF THE EARTH! I do not say we, tell
ourselves so much, but the craving of the mind is to be satisfied with
nothing less. I will suppose the case of a young person of fifteen
(as I then was) knowing nothing of the sea, but from description. He
comes to it for the first time--all that he has been reading of it all
his life, and _that_ the most enthusiastic part of life,--all he has
gathered from narratives of wandering seamen; what he has gained from
true voyages, and what he cherishes as credulously from romance and
poetry; crowding their images, and exacting strange tributes from
expectation.--He thinks of the great deep, and of those who go down
unto it; of its thousand isles, and of the vast continents it washes;
of its receiving the mighty Plata, or Orellana, into its bosom,
without disturbance, or sense of augmentation; of Biscay swells, and
the mariner
For many a day, and many a dreadful night,
Incessant labouring round the stormy Cape;
of fatal rocks, and the "still-vexed Bermoothes;" of great whirlpools,
and the water-spout; of sunken ships, and sumless treasures swallowed
up in the unrestoring depths: of fishes and quaint monsters, to which
all that is terrible on earth--
Be but as buggs to frighten babes withal,
Compared with the creatures in the sea's entral;
of naked savages, and Juan Fernandez; of pearls, and shells; of coral
beds, and of enchanted isles; of mermaids' grots--
I do not assert that in sober earnest he expects to be shown all these
wonders at once, but he is under the tyranny of a mighty faculty,
which haunts him with confused hints and shadows of all these; and
when the actual object opens first upon him, seen (in tame weather too
most likely) from our unromantic coasts--a speck, a slip of sea-water,
as it shows to him--what can it prove but a very unsatisfying and
even diminutive entertainment? Or if he has come to it from the mouth
of a river, was it much more than the river widening? and, even out
of sight of land, what had he but a flat watery horizon about him,
nothing comparable to the vast o'er-curtaining sky, his familiar
object, seen daily without dread or amazement?--Who, in similar
circumstances, has not been tempted to exclaim with Charoba, in the
poem of Gebir,--
Is this the mighty ocean?--is this _all_?
I love town, or country; but this detestable Cinque Port is neither. I
hate these scrubbed shoots, thrusting out their starved foliage from
between the horrid fissures of dusty innutritious rocks; which the
amateur calls "verdure to the edge of the sea." I require woods, and
they show me stunted coppices. I cry out for the water-brooks, and
pant for fresh streams, and inland murmurs. I cannot stand all day on
the naked beach, watching the capricious hues of the sea, shifting
like the colours of a dying mullet. I am tired of looking out at the
windows of this island-prison. I would fain retire into the interior
of my cage. While I gaze upon the sea, I want to be on it, over it,
across it. It binds me in with chains, as of iron. My thoughts are
abroad. I should not so feel in Staffordshire. There is no home for me
here. There is no sense of home at Hastings. It is a place of fugitive
resort, an heterogeneous assemblage of sea-mews and stock-brokers,
Amphitrites of the town, and misses that coquet with the Ocean. If
it were what it was in its primitive shape, and what it ought to
have remained, a fair honest fishing town, and no more, it were
something--with a few straggling fishermen's huts scattered about,
artless as its cliffs, and with their materials filched from them, it
were something. I could abide to dwell with Meschek; to assort with
fisher-swains, and smugglers. There are, or I dream there are, many
of this latter occupation here. Their faces become the place. I like
a smuggler. He is the only honest thief. He robs nothing but the
revenue,--an abstraction I never greatly cared about. I could go out
with them in their mackarel boats, or about their less ostensible
business, with some satisfaction. I can even tolerate those poor
victims to monotony, who from day to day pace along the beach,
in endless progress and recurrence, to watch their illicit
countrymen--townsfolk or brethren perchance--whistling to the
sheathing and unsheathing of their cutlasses (their only solace), who
under the mild name of preventive service, keep up a legitimated civil
warfare in the deplorable absence of a foreign one, to show their
detestation of run hollands, and zeal for old England. But it is the
visitants from town, that come here to _say_ that they have been here,
with no more relish of the sea than a pond perch, or a dace might be
supposed to have, that are my aversion. I feel like a foolish dace
in these regions, and have as little toleration for myself here, as
for them. What can they want here? if they had a true relish of the
ocean, why have they brought all this land luggage with them? or why
pitch their civilised tents in the desert? What mean these scanty
book-rooms--marine libraries as they entitle them--if the sea were, as
they would have us believe, a book "to read strange matter in?" what
are their foolish concert-rooms, if they come, as they would fain be
thought to do, to listen to the music of the waves? All is false and
hollow pretention. They come, because it is the fashion, and to
spoil the nature of the place. They are mostly, as I have said,
stockbrokers; but I have watched the better sort of them--now and
then, an honest citizen (of the old stamp), in the simplicity of his
heart, shall bring down his wife and daughters, to taste the sea
breezes. I always know the date of their arrival. It is easy to see it
in their countenance. A day or two they go wandering on the shingles,
picking up cockleshells, and thinking them great things; but, in a
poor week, imagination slackens: they begin to discover that cockles
produce no pearls, and then--O then!--if I could interpret for the
pretty creatures (I know they have not the courage to confess it
themselves) how gladly would they exchange their sea-side rambles
for a Sunday walk on the green-sward of their accustomed Twickenham
meadows!
I would ask of one of these sea-charmed emigrants, who think they
truly love the sea, with its wild usages, what would their feelings
be, if some of the unsophisticated aborigines of this place,
encouraged by their courteous questionings here, should venture, on
the faith of such assured sympathy between them, to return the visit,
and come up to see--London. I must imagine them with their fishing
tackle on their back, as we carry our town necessaries. What a
sensation would it cause in Lothbury? What vehement laughter would it
not excite among
The daughters of Cheapside, and wives of Lombard-street.
I am sure that no town-bred, or inland-born subjects, can feel their
true and natural nourishment at these sea-places. Nature, where she
does not mean us for mariners and vagabonds, bids us stay at home. The
salt foam seems to nourish a spleen. I am not half so good-natured
as by the milder waters of my natural river. I would exchange these
sea-gulls for swans, and scud a swallow for ever about the banks of
Thamesis.