"To an American visiting Europe for the first time," saith Geoffrey
Crayon, "the long voyage which he has to make is an excellent
preparative." To the greater proportion of those who revisit the old
world, the voyage is only an interval of ennui and impatience. Not such
is it to the writer of this sentence. For him the sea has charms which
age cannot wither, nor head winds abate. For him the voyage is a retreat
from the cares of business, a rest from the pursuit of wealth, and a
prolonged reminiscence of his youthful days, when he first trod the same
restless pathway, and the glories of England and the Continent rose up
resplendent before him, very much as the gorgeous city in the clouds
looms up before the young gentleman in one of the late lamented Mr.
Cole's pictures. For it is a satisfaction to him to remember that such
things were,--even though the performances of life have not by any means
equalled the promises of the programme of youth,--though age and the
cares of an increasing family have stifled poetry, and the genius of
Romance has long since taken his hat.
The recollections of youthful Mediterranean voyages are a mine of wealth
to an old man. They have transformed ancient history into a majestic
reality for him, and the pages of his dog's-eared Lempriere become
instinct with life as he recalls those halcyon days when he reclined on
deck beneath an awning, and gazed on Crete and Lesbos, and the mountains
that look on Marathon. Neither age nor misfortune can ever rob him of
the joy he feels when he looks back to the cloudless afternoon when he
passed from the stormy Atlantic to that blue inland sea,--when he saw
where Africa has so long striven to shake hands with Europe,--and
thrilled at the thought that the sea then glowing with the hues of
sunset was once ploughed by the invincible galleys of the Caesars, and
dashed its angry surges over the shipwrecked Apostle of the Gentiles.
It is rather a pleasant thing to report one's self on board a fine
packet ship on a bright morning in May--the old portmanteau packed
again, and thoughts turned seaward. There is a kind of inspiration in
the song of the sailors at the windlass, (that is, as many of them as
are able to maintain a perpendicular position at that early period of
the voyage;) the very clanking of the anchor chains seems to speak of
speedy liberation, and the ship sways about as if yearning for the
freedom of the open sea. At last the anchor is up, and the ship swings
around, and soon is gliding down the channel; and slowly the new
gasometer, and Bunker Hill Monument, and the old gasometer (with the
dome) on Beacon Hill, begin to diminish in size. (I might introduce a
fine misquotation here about growing "small by degrees, and beautifully
less," but that I don't like novelties in a correspondence like this.)
The embankments of Fort Warren seem brighter and more verdurous than
ever, and the dew-drops glitter in the sunbeams, as dear Nellie's tears
did, when she said good-by, that very morning. Then, as we get into the
bay, the tocsin calls to lunch--and the appetite for lobsters, sardines,
ale, and olives makes us all forget how much we fear lest business of
immediate importance may prevent an early return to the festive
mahogany. And shortly after, the pilot takes his leave, and with him the
small knot of friends, who have gone as far as friendship,
circumstances, and the tide will allow. And so the voyage commences--the
captain takes command--and all feel that the jib-boom points towards
Motherland, and begin to calculate the distance, and anticipate the time
when the ship shall be boarded by a blue-coated beef-eater, who will
take her safely "round 'Oly'ead, and dock 'er." The day wears away, and
the sunset finds the passengers well acquainted, and a healthy family
feeling growing up among them. The next morning we greet the sea and
skies, but not our mother earth. The breeze is light--the weather is
fine--so that the breakfast is discussed before a full bench. Every body
feels well, but sleepy, and the day is spent in conversation and
enjoyment of the novelty of life at sea. The gentle heaving of the ocean
is rather agreeable than otherwise, and the young ladies promenade the
deck, and flatter themselves that they have (if I might use such an
expression) their sea legs on. But the next day the gentle heaving has
become a heavy swell,--locomotion is attended with great
difficulties,--the process of dressing is a severe practical joke,--and
the timorous approach to the breakfast table and precipitous retreat
from it, are very interesting studies to a disinterested spectator. The
dining-saloon is thinly populated when the bell rings--the gentlemen
preferring to lounge about on deck--they have slight headaches--not
seasick--of course not--the gentleman who had taken eight sherry
cobblers was not intoxicated at all--it was a glass of lemonade, that he
took afterwards, that disagreed with him and made his footing rather
unsteady. But Neptune is inexorable, and exacts his tribute, and the
payers show their receipts in pale faces and dull eyes, whether they
acknowledge it or no; and many a poor victim curses the pernicious hour
that ever saw him shipped, and comes to the Irishman's conclusion that
the pleasantest part of going away from home is the getting back again.
But a few days suffice to set all minds and stomachs at rest, and we
settle down into the ordinary routine of life at sea. The days glide by
rapidly, as Shakspeare says, "with books, and work, and healthful play,"
and as we take a retrospective view of the passage, it seems to be a
maze of books, backgammon, bad jokes, cigars, _crochet_, cribbage, and
conversation. Contentment obtains absolute sway, which even ten days of
head winds and calms cannot shake off. Perhaps this is owing in a great
measure to the good temper and gentlemanly bearing of the captain, who
never yielded to the temptation, before which so many intrepid mariners
have fallen, to speak in disrespectful and condemnatory terms of the
weather. How varied must be the qualities which make a good commander of
a packet ship; what a model of patience he must be--patience not only
with the winds, but also with variable elements of humanity which
surround him. He must have a good word for every body and a smiling
face, although he knows that the ship will not head her course by four
points of the compass on either tack; and must put aside with a jest the
unconscious professional gentleman whose hat intervenes between his
sextant and the horizon. In short, he must possess in an eminent degree
what Virgil calls the _suaviter in_ what's-his-name with the _fortiter
in_ what-d'ye-call-it. I am much disposed to think that had Job been a
sea captain with a protracted head wind, the land of Uz would not have
attained celebrity as the abode of the most patient of men.
An eminent Boston divine, not long since deceased, who was noted alike
for his Johnsonian style and his very un-Johnsonian meekness of manner,
once said to a sea captain, "I have, sir, in the course of my
professional career, encountered many gentlemen of your calling; but I
really must say that I have never been powerfully impressed in a moral
way by them, for their conversation abounded in expressions savouring
more of strength than of righteousness; indeed, but few of them seemed
capable of enunciating the simplest sentence without prefacing it with a
profane allusion to the possible ultimate fate of their visual organs,
which I will not shock your fastidiousness by repeating." The profanity
of seafaring men has always been remarked; it has been a staple article
for the lamentations of the moralist and the jests of the immoralist;
but I must say that I am not greatly surprised at its prevalence, for
when I have seen a thunder squall strike a ship at sea, and every effort
was making to save the rent canvas, it has seemed to me as if those
whose dealings were with the elements actually needed a stronger
vocabulary than is required for less sublime transactions. To speak in
ordinary terms on such occasions would be as absurd as the Cockney's
application of the epithets "clever" and "neat" to Niagara. I am not
attempting to palliate every-day profanity, for I was brought up in the
abhorrence of it, having been taken at an early age from the care of the
lady "who ran to catch me when I fell, and kissed the place to make it
well," and placed in the country under the superintendence of a maiden
aunt, who was very moral indeed, and who instilled her principles into
my young heart with wonderful eloquence and power. "Andrew," she used to
say to me, "you mustn't laugh in meetin'; I've no doubt that the man who
was hung last week (for this was in those unenlightened days when the
punishment of crime was deemed a duty, and not a sin) began his wicked
course by laughing in meetin'; and just think, if you were to commit a
murder--for those who murder will steal--and those who steal will swear
and lie--and those who swear and lie will drink rum--and then if they
don't stop in their sinful ways, they get so bad that they will smoke
cigars and break the Sabbath; and you know what becomes of 'em then."
The ordinary routine of life at sea, which is so irksome to most people,
has a wonderful charm for me. There is something about a well-manned
ship that commands my deepest enthusiasm. Each day is filled with a
quiet and satisfactory kind of enjoyment. From that early hour of the
morning when the captain turns out to see what is the prospect of the
day, and to drink a mug of boiling coffee as strong as aquafortis, and
as black as the newly-opened fluid Day & Martin, from No. 97, High
Holborn, to that quiet time in the evening when that responsible
functionary goes below and turns in, with a sententious instruction to
the officer of the watch to "wake him at twelve, if there's any change
in the weather," there is no moment that hangs heavy on my hands. I love
the regular striking of the bells, reminding me every half hour how
rapidly time and I are getting on. The regularity with which every thing
goes on, from the early washing of the decks to the sweeping of the same
at four bells in the evening, makes me think of those ancient
monasteries in the south of Europe, where the unvarying round of duties
creates a paradise which those who are subject to the unexpected
fluctuations of common life might be pardoned for coveting. If the rude
voices that swell the boisterous chorus which hoists the tugging
studding-sail up by three-feet pulls, only imperfectly remind one of the
sounds he hears when the full choir of the monastery makes the grim
arches of the chapel vibrate with the solemn tones of the Gregorian
chant, certainly the unbroken calmness of the morning watch may well be
allowed to symbolize the rapt meditation and unspoken devotion which
finds its home within the "studious cloister's pale"; and I may be
pardoned for comparing the close attention of the captain and his mates
in getting the sun's altitude and working out the ship's position to the
"examination of conscience" among the devout dwellers in the convent,
and the working out of the spiritual reckoning which shows them how much
they have varied from the course laid down on the divine chart, and how
far they are from the wished-for port of perfection.
I have a profound respect for the sea as a moral teacher. No man can be
tossed about upon it without feeling his impotence and insignificance,
and having his heart opened to the companions of his danger as it has
never been opened before. The sea brings out the real character of every
man; and those who journey over its "deep invisible paths" find
themselves intrusting their most sacred confidences to the keeping of
comparative strangers. The conventionalities of society cannot thrive in
a salt atmosphere; and you shall be delighted to see how frank and
agreeable the "world's people" can be when they are caught where the
laws of fashion are silent, and what a wholesome neglect of personal
appearances prevails among them when that sternest of democrats,
Neptune, has placed them where they feel that it would be folly to try
to produce an impression. The gentleman of the prize ring, whom Dickens
introduces looking with admiration at the stately Mr. Dombey, gave it as
his opinion that there was a way within the resources of science of
"doubling-up" that incarnation of dignity; but, for the accomplishment
of such an end, one good, pitching, head-sea would be far more effectual
than all the resources of the "manly art." The most unbending assumption
could not survive that dreadful sinking of the stomach, that convulsive
clutch at the nearest object for support, and the faint, gurgling cry of
"_stew'rd_" which announces that the victim has found his natural level.
A thorough novitiate of seasickness is as indispensable, in my opinion,
to the formation of true manly character, as the measles to a
well-regulated childhood. Mentally as well as corporeally, seasickness
is a wonderful renovator. We are such victims of habit, so prone to run
in a groove, (most of us in a groove that may well be called a "vicious
circle,") that we need to be thoroughly shaken up, and made to take a
new view of the _rationale_ of our way of life. I do not believe that
any man ever celebrated his recovery from that marine malady by eating
the pickles and biscuit which always taste so good on such an occasion,
without having acquired a new set of ideas, and being made generally
wiser and better by his severe experience. I meet many unamiable persons
"whene'er I take my walks abroad," who only need two days of seasickness
to convert them into positive ornaments to society.
But, pardon me; all this has little to do with the voyage to Liverpool.
The days follow each other rapidly, and it begins to seem as if the
voyage would stretch out to the crack of doom, for the head wind stands
by us with the constancy of a sheriff, and when that lacks power to
retard us we have a calm. But the weather is beautiful, and all the time
is spent in the open air. Nut brown maids work worsted and crochet on
the cooler side of the deck, and gentlemen in rusty suits, with
untrimmed beards, wearing the "shadowy livery of the burning sun," talk
of the prospects of a fair wind or read innumerous novels. The evenings
are spent in gazing at a cloudless sky, and promenading in the
moonshine. Music lends its aid and banishes impatience; my young
co-voyagers seem not to have forgotten "Sweet Home," and the "Old Folks
at Home" would be very much gratified to know how green their memory is
kept.
At length we all begin to grow tired of fair weather. The cloudless sky,
the gorgeous sunrises and sunsets, and the bright blue sea, with its
lazily spouting whales and its lively porpoises playing around our
bows,--grow positively distasteful to us; and we begin to think that any
change would be an agreeable one. We do not have to wait many days
before we are awaked very early in the morning, by the throwing down of
heavy cordage on deck, and the shouts of the sailors, and are soon aware
that we are subject to an unusual motion--as if the ship were being
propelled by a strong force over a corduroy road constructed on an
enormous scale. Garments, which yesterday were content to hang in an
orderly manner against the partitions of one's state-room, now
obstinately persist in hanging at all sorts of peculiar and disgraceful
angles. Hat boxes, trunks, and the other movables of the voyager
manifest great hilarity at the change in the weather, and dance about
the floor in a manner that must satisfy the most fastidious beholder.
Every timber in the ship groans as if in pain. The omnipresent steward
rushes about, closing up sky-lights and dead lights, and "chocking" his
rattling crockery and glassware. On deck the change from the even keel
and the clear sunlight of the day before is still more wonderful. The
colour of the sky reminds you of the leaden lining of a tea-chest; that
of the sea, of the dingy green paper which covers the same. The sails,
which so many days of sunshine have bleached to a dazzling whiteness,
are now all furled, except those which are necessary to keep some little
headway on the ship. The captain has adorned his manly frame with a suit
of India rubber, which certainly could not have been selected for its
gracefulness, and has overshadowed his honest face with a sou'wester of
stupendous proportions. With the exception of occasional visits to the
sinking barometer, he spends his weary day on the wet deck, and tries to
read the future in the blackening waves and stormy sky. The wheel, which
heretofore has required but one man, now taxes the strength of two of
the stoutest of our crew;--so hard is it to keep our bashful ship
heading up to that rude sea, and to "ease her when she pitches." The
breakfast suffers sadly from neglect, for every one is engrossed with
the care of the weather. At noon there is a lull for half an hour or so,
and, in spite of the threats of the remorseless barometer, some of our
company try to look for an amelioration in the meteorological line. But
their hopes are crushed when they find that the wind has shifted one or
two points, and has set in to blow more violently than before. The sea,
too, begins to behave in a most capricious and disagreeable style. When
the ship has, with a great deal of straining and cracking, ridden safely
over two mighty ridges of water, and seems to be easily settling down
into a black valley between two foam-capped hills, there comes a sudden
shock, as if she had met the Palisades of the Hudson in her path--a
crackling, grating sound, like that of a huge nutmeg-grater operating on
a coral reef, a crash like the combined force of all the battering-rams
of Titus Flavius Vespasianus on one of the gates of Jerusalem,--and a
hundred tons of angry water roll aft against the cabin doors, in a
manner not at all agreeable to weak nerves. For a moment the ship seems
to stand perfectly still, as if deliberating whether to go on or turn
back; then, realizing that the ship that deliberates in such a time is
lost, she rises gracefully over a huge pile of water which was
threatening to submerge her.
The afternoon wears away slowly with the passengers. They say but little
to one another, but look about them from the security of the wheel-house
as if they were oppressed with a sense of the inestimable value of
strong cordage. As twilight approaches, and all hands are just engaged
in taking supper, after having "mended the reefs," the ship meets a
staggering sea, which seems to start every timber in her firm-set frame,
and our main-top-gallant-mast breaks off like a stick of candy. Such
things generally happen just at night, the sailors say, when the
difficulties of clearing away the broken rigging are increased by the
darkness. Straightway the captain's big, manly voice is heard above the
war-whoop of the gale, ringing out as Signor Badiali's was wont to in
the third act of Ernani. The wind seems to pin the men to the ratlines
as they clamber up; but all the difficulties are overcome at length; the
broken mast is lowered down, and snugly stowed away; and before nine
o'clock all is quiet, except the howling wind, which seems to have
determined to make a night of it. And such a night! It is one of those
times that make one want one's mother. There is little sleeping done
except among the "watch below" in the forecastle, who snore away their
four hours as if they appreciated the reasoning of Mr. Dibdin when he
extols the safety of the open sea as compared with the town with its
falling chimneys and flying tiles, and commiserates the condition of the
unhappy shore-folks in such a tempestuous time. The thumping of the sea
against our wooden walls, the swash of water on deck as the ship rolls
and pitches as you would think it impossible for any thing addicted to
the cold water movement to roll or pitch, and over all the wild,
changeless, shrieking of the gale, will not suffer sleep to visit those
who are not inured to such things. Tired of bracing up with knee, and
hand, and heel, to keep in their berths, they lie and wonder how many
such blows as that our good ship could endure, and think that if June
gets up such gales on the North Atlantic, they have no wish to try the
quality of those of January.
Morning comes at last, and every heart is cheered by the captain's
announcement, as he passes through the cabin, that the barometer is
rising, and the weather has begun to improve. Some of the more hopeful
and energetic of our company turn out and repair to the deck. The leaden
clouds are broken up, and the sun trying to struggle through them; but
to the inexperienced the gale appears to be as severe as it was
yesterday. All the discomfort and danger of the time are forgotten,
however, in the fearful magnificence of the spectacle that surrounds us.
As far as the eye can reach it seems like a confused field of battle,
where snowy plumes and white flowing manes show where the shock of war
is felt most severely. To watch the gathering of one of those mighty
seas that so often work destruction with the noblest ships,--to see it
gradually piling up until it seems to be impelled by a fury almost
intelligent,--to be dazzled by its emerald flash when it erects its
stormy head the highest, and breaks into a field of boiling foam, as if
enraged at being unable to reach us;--these are things which are worth
all the anxiety and peril that they cost.
The captain's prognostications prove correct. Our appetites at dinner
bear witness to them; and before sunset we find our ship (curtailed of
its fair proportion, it is true, by the loss of its
main-top-gallant-mast) is under full sail once more. The next day we
have a few hours' calm, and when a light breeze does spring up, it comes
from the old easterly quarter. It begins to seem as if we were fated to
sail forever, and never get any where. But patience wears out even a
head wind, and at last the long-looked-for change takes place. The wind
slowly hauls to the south, and many are the looks taken at the compass
to see how nearly the ship can come up to her course. Then our
impatience is somewhat allayed by speaking a ship which has been out
twelve days longer than our own--for, if it be true, as Rochefoucauld
says, that "there is something not unpleasing to us in the misfortunes
of our best friends,"--how keen must be the satisfaction of finding a
stranger-companion in adversity. The wind, though steady, is not very
strong, and many fears are expressed lest it should die away and give
Eurus another three weeks' chance. But our forebodings are not realized,
and a sunshiny day comes when we are all called up from dinner to see a
long cloud-like affair, (very like a whale,) which, we are told, is the
Old Head of Kinsale. Straightway all begin to talk of getting on shore
the next day; but when that comes, we find that we are drawing towards
Holyhead very rapidly, as our favourable wind has increased to a
gale--so that when we have got round Holyhead, and have taken our pilot,
(that burly visitor whose coming every one welcomes, and whose departure
every one would speed,) the aforesaid pilot heaves the ship to, and,
having a bed made up on the cabin floor, composes himself to sleep. The
next morning finds the gale abated, and early in the forenoon we are
running up to the mouth of the river. The smoke (that first premonitory
symptom of an English town) hangs over Liverpool, and forms a strong
contrast with the bright green fields and verdant hedges which deck the
banks of the Mersey. The ship, after an immense amount of vocal power
has been expended in that forcible diction which may be termed the
marine vernacular, is got into dock, and in the afternoon a passage of
thirty-three days is concluded by our stepping once more upon the
"inviolate island of the sage and free," and following our luggage up
the pier, with a swing in our gait which any stage sailor would have
viewed with envy. The examination at the Custom House is conducted with
a politeness and despatch worthy of imitation among the officials of our
Uncle Samuel. The party of passengers disperses itself about in various
hotels, without any circumstance to hinder their progress except falling
in with an exhibition of Punch and Judy, which makes the company
prolific in quotations from the sayings of Messrs. Codlin and Short, and
at last the family which never had its harmonious unity disturbed by any
thing, is broken up forever.
Liverpool wears its old thriving commercial look--perhaps it is a few
shades darker with smoke. The posters are on a more magnificent scale,
both as regards size and colour, than ever before, and tell not only of
the night's amusements, but promise the acquisition of wealth outrunning
the dreams of avarice in lands beyond the farthest Thule. Melbourne and
Port Philip vie in the most gorgeous colours with San Francisco; and the
United States seem to have spread wide their capacious arms to welcome
the down-trodden Irishman. Liverpool seems to be the gate to all the
rest of the world. I almost fear to walk about lest I should find myself
starting off, in a moment of temporary insanity, for Greenland's icy
mountains, or India's coral strand.