effort to forget the facts of his own existence. It is vain to pin such
philosophers to a definite meaning; but I think the writer meant vaguely
to hint in a lofty way that the human mind incessantly longs for change.
We all crave to be something that we are not; we all wish to know the
facts concerning states of existence other than our own; and it is this
craving curiosity that produces every form of social and spiritual
activity. Yet, with all this restless desire, this uneasy yearning, only
a few of us are ever able to pass beyond one piteously narrow sphere,
and we rest in blank ignorance of the existence that goes on without the
bounds of our tiny domain. How many people know that by simply going on
board a ship and sailing for a couple of days they would pass
practically into another moral world, and change their mental as well as
their bodily habits? I have been moved to these reflections by observing
the vast amount of nautical literature which appears during the holiday
season, and by seeing the complete ignorance and misconception which are
palmed off upon the public. It is a fact that only a few English people
know anything about the mightiest of God's works. To them life on the
ocean is represented by a series of phrases which seem to have been
transplanted from copy-books. They speak of "the bounding main," "the
raging billows," "seas mountains high," "the breath of the gale," "the
seething breakers," and so on; but regarding the commonplace, quiet
everyday life at sea they know nothing. Strangely enough, only Mr. Clark
Russell has attempted to give in literary form a vivid, veracious
account of sea-life, and his thrice-noble books are far too little
known, so that the strongest maritime nation in the whole world is
ignorant of vital facts concerning the men who make her prosperity. Let
any one who is well informed enter a theatre when a nautical drama is
presented; he will find the most ridiculous spectacle that the mind of
man can conceive. On one occasion, when a cat came on to the stage at
Drury Lane and ran across the heaving billows of the canvas ocean, the
audience roared with laughter; but to the judicious critic the real
cause for mirth was the behaviour of the nautical persons who figured in
the drama. The same ignorance holds everywhere. Seamen scarcely ever
think of describing their life to people on shore, and the majority of
landsmen regard a sea-voyage as a dull affair, to be begun with regret
and ended with joy. Dull! Alas, it is dull for people who have dim eyes
and commonplace minds; but for the man who has learned to gaze aright at
the Creator's works there is not a heavy minute from the time when the
dawn trembles in the gray sky until the hour when, with stars and
sea-winds in her raiment, night sinks on the sea. Dull! As well describe
the rush of the turbulent Strand or the populous splendour of Regent
Street by that word! I have always held that a man cannot be considered
as educated if he is unable to wait an hour in a railway-station for a
train without _ennui_. What is education good for if it does not give us
resources which may enable us to gather delight or instruction from
every sight and sound that may fall on our nerves? The most melancholy
spectacle in the world is presented by the stolid citizen who yawns over
his _Bradshaw_ while the swift panoramas of Charing Cross or Euston are
gliding by him. Men who are rightly constituted find delight in the very
quietude and isolation of sea-life; they know how to derive pure
entertainment from the pageant of the sky and the music of winds and
waters, and they experience a piquant delight by reason of the contrast
between the loneliness of the sea and the eager struggling life of the
City. Proceeding, as is my custom, by examples, I shall give precise
descriptions of specimen days which anybody may spend on the wandering
wastes of the ocean. "All things pertaining to the life of man are of
interest to me," said the Roman; and he showed his wisdom by that
saying.
Dawn. Along the water-line a pale leaden streak appears, and little
tremulous ripples of gray run gently upwards, until a broad band of
mingled white and scarlet shines with cold radiance. The mystery of the
sea is suddenly removed, and we can watch the strange serpentine belts
that twine and glitter all round from our vessel to the horizon. The
light is strong before the sun appears; and perhaps that brooding hour,
when Nature seems to be turning in her sleep, is the best of the whole
day. The dew lies thickly on deck, and the chill of the night hangs in
the air; but soon a red arc looms up gorgeously at the sea-line; long
rays spread out like a sheaf of splendid swords on the blue; there is,
as it were, a wild dance of colour in the noble vault, where cold green
and pink and crimson wind and flush and softly glide in mystic mazes;
and then--the sun! The great flaming disc seems to poise for a little,
and all around it--pierced here and there by the steely rays--the clouds
hang like tossing scarlet plumes.
Like a warrior-angel sped
On a mighty mission,
Light and life about him shed--
A transcendent vision!
Mailed in gold and fire he stands,
And, with splendours shaken,
Bids the slumbering seas and lands
Quicken and awaken.
Day is on us. Dreams are dumb,
Thought has light for neighbour;
Room! The rival giants come--
Lo, the Sun and Labour!
After witnessing that lordly spectacle, who can wonder at Zoroaster? As
the lights from east and west meet and mingle, and the sky rears its
blue immensity, it is hard to look on for very gladness.
I shall suppose that we are on a small vessel--for, if we sail in a
liner, or even in an ordinary big steamer, it is somewhat like moving
about on a floating factory. The busy life of a sailor begins, for Jack
rarely has an idle minute while he is on deck. Landsmen can call in help
when their house needs repairing, but sailors must be able to keep every
part of _their_ house in perfect order; and there is always something to
be done. But we are lazy; we toil not, neither do we tar ropes, and our
main business is to get up a thoroughly good appetite while we watch the
deft sailor-men going about their business. It is my belief that a
landsman might spend a month without a tedious hour, if he would only
take the trouble to watch everything that the men do and find out why it
is done. Ages on ages of storm and stress are answerable for the most
trifling device that the sailor employs. How many and many lives were
lost before the Norsemen learned to support the masts of their winged
dragons by means of bull's-hide ropes! How many shiploads of men were
laid at the mercy of the travelling seas before the Scandinavians
learned to use a fixed rudder instead of a huge oar! Not a bolt or rope
or pulley or eyelet-hole has been fixed in our vessel save through the
bitter experience of centuries; one might write a volume about that
mainsail, showing how its rigid, slanting beauty and its tremendous
power were gradually attained by evolution from the ugly square lump of
matting which swung from the masthead of Mediterranean craft. But we
must not philosophise; we must enjoy. The fresh morning breeze runs
merrily over the ripples and plucks off their crests; our vessel leans
prettily, and you hear a tinkling hiss as she shears through the lovely
green hillocks. Sometimes she thrusts away a burst of spray, and in the
midst of the white spurt there shines a rainbow. It may happen that the
rainbows come thickly for half an hour at a time, and then we seem to be
passing through a fairy scene. Go under the main-yard and look away to
leeward. The wind roars out of the mainsail and streams over you in a
cold flood; but you do not mind that, for there is the joyous expanse
of emerald and snow dancing under the glad sun. There is something
unspeakably delightful in the rushing never-ending procession of waves
that passes away, away in merry ranks to the shining horizon; and all
true lovers of the sea are exhilarated by the sweet tumult. Remember I
am talking about a fine day; I shall come to the bad weather in good
time. On this ineffable morning a lady may come up and walk briskly in
the crisp air; but indeed women are the best and coolest of sailors in
any weather when once their preliminary troubles are over. The hours fly
past, and we hail the announcement of breakfast with a sudden joy which
tells of gross materialism. I may say, by-the-way, that our lower
nature, or what sentimental persons call our lower nature, comes out
powerfully at sea, and men of the most refined sort catch themselves in
the act of wondering time after time when meals will be ready. For me I
think that it is no more gross to delight in flavours than it is to
delight in colours or harmonies, and one of my main reasons for dwelling
on the delights of the sea lies in the fact that the voyager learns to
take an exquisite, but quite rational, delight in the mere act of
eating. I know that I ought to speak as though dinner were an ignoble
institution; I know that the young lady who said, "Thanks--I rarely
eat," represented a class who pretend to devote themselves to higher
joys; but I decline to talk cant on any terms, and I say that the
healthy, hearty hunger bestowed by the open sea is one of God's good
gifts.
The sweet morning passes away, and somehow our thoughts run in bright
grooves. That is the strange thing about the sea--its moods have an
instant effect on the mind; and, as it changes with wild and swift
caprice, the seafarer finds that his views of life alter with
tantalizing but pleasant suddenness. Just now I am speaking only of
content and exhilaration; but I may soon see another side of the
picture. The afternoon glides by like the morning; no churlish houses
and chimney-pots hide the sun, and we see him describe his magnificent
curve, while, with mysterious potency, he influences the wind. Dull!
Why, on shore we should gaze out on the same streets or fields or trees;
but here our residence is driven along like a flying cloud, and we gain
a fresh view with every mile! I confess that I like sailing in populous
waters, for indeed the lonely tropical seas and the brassy skies are not
by any means to be regarded as delightful; but for the present we are
supposing ourselves to be in the track of vessels, and there is some new
and poignant interest for every hour. Watch this vast pallid cloud that
looms up far away; the sun strikes on the cloud, and straightway the
snowy mass gleams like silver; on it comes, and soon we see a superb
four-masted clipper broadside on to us. A royal fabric she is; every
snowy sail is drawing, and she moves with resistless force and matchless
grace through the water, while a boiling wreath of milky foam rushes
away from her bows, and swathes of white dapple the green river that
seems to pour past her majestic sides. The emigrants lean over the rail,
and gaze wistfully at us. Ah, how many thousands of miles they must
travel ere they reach their new home! Strange and pitiful it is to think
that so few of them will ever see the old home again; and yet there is
something bright and hopeful in the spectacle, if we think not of
individuals, but of the world's future. Under the Southern Cross a
mighty state is rising; the inevitable movement of populations is
irresistible as the tides of mid-ocean; and those wistful emigrants who
quietly wave their handkerchiefs to us are about to assist in working
out the destiny of a new world. Dull! The passing of that great vessel
gives matter for grave thought. She swings away, and we may perhaps try
to run alongside for a while, but the immense drag of her four towers of
canvas soon draws her clear, and she speedily looms once more like a
cloud on the horizon. Good-bye! The squat collier lumbers along, and her
leisurely grimy skipper salutes as we near him. It is marvellous to
reflect that the whole of our coal-trade was carried on in those queer
tubs only sixty years ago. They are passing away, and the gallant,
ignorant, comical race of sailors who manned them has all but
disappeared; the ugly sordid iron box that goes snorting past us,
belching out jets of water from her dirty side--that is the agency that
destroyed the colliers, and, alas, destroyed the finest breed of seamen
that ever the world saw! So rapidly do new sights and sounds greet us
that the night steals down almost before we are aware of its approach.
The day is for joy; but, ah, the night is for subtle overmastering
rapture, for pregnant gloom, for thoughts that lie too deep for tears!
If a wind springs up when the last ray of the sun shoots over the
shoulder of the earth, then the ship roars through an inky sea, and the
mysterious blending of terror and ecstasy cannot be restrained. Hoarsely
the breeze shrieks in the cordage, savagely the water roars as it darts
away astern like a broad fierce white flame. The vessel seems to spring
forward and shake herself with passion as the sea retards her, and the
whole wild symphony of humming ropes, roaring water, screaming wind,
sets every pulse bounding. Should the moon shine out from the charging
clouds, then earth has not anything to show more fair; the broad track
of light looks like an immeasurable river peopled by fiery serpents that
dart and writhe and interwind, until the eye aches with gazing on them.
Sleep seems impossible at first, and yet by degrees the poppied touch
lulls our nerves, and we slumber without heeding the harrowing groans of
the timbers or the confused cries of the wind.
So much for the glad weather; but, when the sky droops low, and leaping
waves of mournful hue seem to rear themselves and mingle with the
clouds, then the gladness is not so apparent. Still the exulting rush of
the ship through the gray seas and her contemptuous shudder as she
shakes off the masses of water that thunder down on her are fine to
witness. Even a storm, when cataracts of hissing water plunge over the
vessel and force every one to "hang on anywhere," is by no means without
its delights; but I must candidly say that a ship is hardly the place
for a woman when the wild winds try their strength against the works of
man. On the whole, if we reckon up the pains and pleasures of life on
board ship, the balance is all in favour of pleasure. The sailors have a
toilsome life, and must endure much; but they have health. It is the
sense of physical well-being that makes the mind so easy when one is on
the sea; and refined men who have lived in the forecastle readily
declare that they were happy but for the invariable dirt. Instead of
trooping to stuffy lodgings, those of my readers who have the nerve
should, if not this year, then next summer, go right away and take a
cheap and charming holiday on the open sea.
_October, 1887._
_WAR._
The brisk Pressmen are usually exceedingly busy in calculating the
chances of a huge fight--indeed they spend a good part of each year in
that pleasing employment. Smug diplomatists talk glibly about "war
clearing the air;" and the crowd--the rank and file--chatter as though
war were a pageant quite divorced from wounds and death, or a mere
harmless hurly-burly where certain battalions receive thrashings of a
trifling nature. It is saddening to notice the levity with which the
most awful of topics is treated, and especially is it sad to see how
completely the women and children are thrust out of mind by belligerent
persons. We who have gazed on the monster of War, we who have looked in
the whites--or rather the reds--of his loathsome eyes, cannot let this
burst of frivolity work mischief without one temperate word of warning
and protest.
Pleasant it is to watch the soldiers as they march along the streets, or
form in their superb lines on parade. No man or woman of any sensibility
can help feeling proudly stirred when a Cavalry regiment goes by. The
clean, alert, upright men, with their sure seat; the massive war-horses
champing their bits and shaking their accoutrements: the rhythmic thud
of hoofs, the keen glitter of steel, and the general air of power, all
combine to form a spectacle that sets the pulses beating faster. Then,
again, observe the strange elastic rhythm of the march as a battalion of
tall Highlanders moves past. The fifes and drums cease, there is a
silence broken only by that sinuous beautiful onward movement of lines
of splendid men, until the thrilling scream of the pipes shatters the
air, and the mad tumult of warlike sound makes even a Southron's nerves
quiver. Then, once more, watch the deadly, steady march of a regiment of
Guards. The stalwart men step together, and, as the red ranks sway on,
it seems as though no earthly power could stand against them. The gloomy
bearskins are like a brooding dark cloud, and the glitter of the
rifle-barrels carries with it certain sinister terrible suggestions. The
gaiety and splendour of Cavalry and Infantry all gain increased power
over the imagination since we know that each of those gaily clad fellows
would march to his doom without a tremor or a murmur if he received the
word. Poor Tommy Atkins is surrounded by a sort of halo in the popular
imagination, simply because it is known that he may one day have to deal
forth death to an enemy, or take his own doom, according to the chances
of combat. I need say little about the field-days and reviews which have
caused so many martially-minded young men to take the shilling. The
crash of the small-arm firing, the wild galloping of hasty
aides-de-camp, the measured movement of serried lines, the rapid flight
of flocks of bedizened staff-officers, all make up a very exciting and
confusing picture, and many a youngster has fancied that war must be a
glorious game. Let us leave the picturesque and theatrical business and
come to the dry prose.
So far from being an affair of glitter, excitement, fierce joy, fierce
triumph, war is but a round of hideous hours which bring memories of
squalor, filth, hunger, wretchedness, dull toil, unspeakable misery.
Take it at its best, and consider what a modern engagement really means.
Recollect, moreover, that I am about to use sentences accurate as a
photograph. The sportive Pressman says, "Vernon began to find the
enemy's cloud of sharp-shooters troublesome, so the 5th sought better
cover on the right, leaving Brown free to develop his artillery fire."
"Troublesome!" Translate that word, and it means this: Private Brown and
Private Jones are lying behind the same low bank. Jones raises his head;
there comes a sound like "Roo-o-osh--pht!"--then a horrible thud. Jones
glares, grasps at nothing with convulsed hands, and rolls sideways with
a long shudder. The ball took him in the temple. Serjeant Morrison says,
"Now, men, try for that felled log! Double!" A few men make a short
rush, and gain the solid cover; but one throws up his hands when half
way, gives a choking yell, springs in the air, and falls down limp. The
same thing is going on over a mile of country, while the shell-fire is
gradually gaining power--and we may be sure that the enemy are suffering
at the hands of our marksmen. And now suppose that an infantry brigade
receives orders to charge. "Charge!" The word carries magnificent poetic
associations, but, alas, it is a very prosaic affair nowadays! The lines
move onward in short rushes, and it seems as if a swarm of ants were
migrating warily. The strident voices of the officers ring here and
there: the men edge their way onward: it seems as if there were no
method in the advance; but somehow the loose wavy ranks are kept well
in hand, and the main movement proceeds like machinery. "I feel a bit
queer," says Bill Williams to a veteran friend. "Never mind--'taint
every one durst say that," says the friend. "Whoo-o-sh!" a muffled
thump, and the veteran falls forward, dropping his rifle. He struggles
up on hands and knees, but a rush of blood chokes him, and he drops with
a groan. He will lie there for a long time before his burning throat is
moistened by a cup of water, and he knows only too well that the surgeon
will merely shake his head when he sees him. The brigade still advances;
gradually the sputtering crackle in their front grows into a low steady
roar; a stream of lead whistles in the air, and the long lurid line of
flame glows with the sustained glare of a fire among furze. Men fall at
every yard, but the hoarse murmur of the dogged advance never ceases. At
last the time comes for the rush. The ranks are trimmed up by
imperceptible degrees; the men set their teeth, and a strange eager look
comes over many a face. The eyes of the youngsters stare glassily; they
can see the wood from which the enemy must be dislodged at any price,
but they can form no definite ideas; they merely grip their rifles and
go on mechanically. The word is given--the dark lines dash forward; the
firing from the wood breaks out in a crash of fury--there is a long
harsh rattle, then a chance crack like a thunder-clap, and then a
whirring like the spinning of some demoniac mill. Curses ring out amid a
low sound of hard breathing; the ranks are gapped here and there as a
man wriggles away like a wounded rabbit, or another bounds upward with a
frantic ejaculation. Then comes the fighting at close quarters. Perhaps
kind women who are misled by the newspaper-writer's brisk babblement
may like to know what that means, so I give the words of the best
eyewitness that ever gazed on warfare. He took down his notes by the
light of burning wood, and he had no time to think of grammar. All his
words were written like mere convulsive cries, but their main effect is
too vivid to be altered. Notice that he rarely concludes a sentence, for
he wanted to save time, and the bullets were cutting up the ground and
the trees all round him. "Patches of the wood take fire, and several of
the wounded, unable to move, are consumed. Quite large spaces are swept
over, burning the dead also; some of the men have their hair and beards
singed, some burns on their faces and hands, others holes burnt in their
clothing. The flashes of fire from the cannon, the quick glaring flames
and smoke, and the immense roar--the musketry so general; the light
nearly bright enough for each side to see the other; the crashing,
tramping of men--the yelling--close quarters--hand-to-hand conflicts.
Each side stands up to it, brave, determined as demons; and still the
wood's on fire--still many are not only scorched--too many, unable to
move, are burned to death. Who knows the conflict, hand-to-hand--the
many conflicts in the dark--those shadowy, tangled, flashing,
moon-beamed woods--the writhing groups and squads--the cries, the din,
the cracking guns and pistols, the distant cannon--the cheers and calls
and threats and awful music of the oaths, the indescribable mix, the
officers' orders, persuasions, encouragements--the devils fully roused
in human hearts--the strong shout, 'Charge, men--charge!'--the flash of
the naked swords, and rolling flame and smoke? And still the broken,
clear, and clouded heaven; and still again the moonlight pouring
silvery soft its radiant patches over all."
There is a description vivid as lightning, though there is not a
properly-constructed sentence in it. Gruesome, cruel, horrible! Is it
not enough to make the women of our sober sensible race declare for ever
against the flaunting stay-at-homes who would egg us on to war? By all
means let us hold to the old-fashioned dogged ways, but let us beware of
rushing into the squalid vortex of war. And now let us see what follows
the brilliant charge and bayonet fight. How many ladies consider what
the curt word "wounded" means? It conveys no idea to them, and they are
too apt to stray off into the dashing details that tell of a great
wrestle of armies. One eminent man--whom I believe to have uttered a
libel--has declared that women like war, and that they are usually the
means of urging men on. He is a very sedate and learned philosopher who
wrote that statement, and yet I cannot believe it. Ah, no! Our ladies
can give their dearest up to death when the State calls on them, but
they will never be like the odious viragoes of the Roman circus. At any
rate, if any woman acts according to the dictum of the philosopher after
reading my bitterly true words, we shall hold that our influence is
departed. Therefore with ruthless composure I follow my observer--a man
whose pure and holy spirit upheld him as he ministered to sufferers for
year after year.
"Then the camps of the wounded. Oh, heavens, what scene is this? Is this
indeed humanity--these butchers' shambles? There are several of them.
There they lie, in the largest, in an open space in the woods--from two
to three hundred poor fellows. The groans and screams, the odour of
blood mixed with the fresh scent of the night, the grass, the
trees--that slaughter-house! Oh, well is it their mothers, their
sisters, cannot see them, cannot conceive, and never conceived such
things! One man is shot by a shell both in the arm and leg; both are
amputated--there lie the rejected members. Some have their legs blown
off, some bullets through the breast, some indescribably horrid wounds
in the head--all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out, some in the
abdomen, some mere boys." Alas, I have quoted enough--and may never such
a task come before me again! The picture is sharp as an etching; it is
drawn with a shudder of the soul. Is that grim sedate man right when he
says that women are the moving influence that drives men to such
carnage? Would you wantonly advocate war? Never! I reject the solemn
philosopher's saying, in spite of his logic and his sententiousness.
Who shall speak of the awful monotony of the hospital camps, where men
die like flies, and where regret, sympathy, kindness are blotted from
the hardened soldier's breast? People are not cruel by nature, but the
vague picturesque language of historians and other general writers
prevents men and women from forming just opinions. I believe that, if
one hundred wounded men could be transported from a battle-field and
laid down in the public square of any town or city for the population to
see, then the gazers would say among themselves, "So this is war, is it?
Well, for our parts, we shall be very cautious before we raise any
agitation that might force our Government into any conflict. We can die
if our liberties are threatened, for there are circumstances in which
it would be shameful to live, but we shall never do anything which may
bring about results such as those before us." That would be a fair and
temperate mode of talking--far different from the airy babble of the
warlike scribe.