Ver.10/04/01*END*
Gutenberg submission by: David P. Steelman (dsteelma@eastern.edu).
Two Years Before the Mast
Richard H. Dana, Jr.
INTRODUCTION
In 1869, my father, the late Richard Henry Dana, Jr., prepared a
new edition of his ``Two Years Before the Mast'' with this
preface:
``After twenty-eight years, the copyright of this book has
reverted to me. In presenting the first `author's edition' to the
public, I have been encouraged to add an account of a visit to the
old scenes, made twenty-four years after, together with notices of
the subsequent story and fate of the vessels, and of some of the
persons with whom the reader is made acquainted.''
The popularity of this book has been so great and continued that
it is now proposed to make an illustrated edition with new
material. I have prepared a concluding chapter to continue my
father's ``Twenty-four Years After.'' This will give all that we
have since learned of the fate of crew and vessels, and a brief
account of Mr. Dana himself and his important lifework, which
appears more fully in his published biography[1] and printed
speeches and letters.[2] This concluding chapter will take the place
of the biographic sketch prefixed to the last authorized edition.
There is also added an appendix with a list of the crews of the
two vessels in which Mr. Dana sailed, extracts from a log, and
also plates of spars, rigging and sails, with names, to aid the
reader.
In the winter of 1879-80 I sailed round Cape Horn in a full-rigged
ship from New York to California. At the latter place I visited
the scenes of ``Two Years Before the Mast.'' At the old town of
San Diego I met Jack Stewart, my father's old shipmate, and as we
were looking at the dreary landscape and the forlorn adobe houses
and talking of California of the thirties, he burst out into an
encomium of the accuracy and fidelity to details of my father's
book. He said, ``I have read it again and again. It all comes back
to me, everything just as it happened. The seamanship is
perfect.'' And then as if to emphasize it all, with the exception
that proves the rule, he detailed one slight case where he thought
my father was at fault,---a detail so slight that I now forget
what it is. In reading the Log kept by the discharged mate,
Amerzeen, on the return trip in the Alert, I find that every
incident there recorded, from running aground at the start at San
Diego Harbor, through the perilous icebergs round the Horn, the
St. Elmo's fire, the scurvy of the crew and the small matters like
the painting of the vessel, to the final sail up Boston Harbor,
confirms my father's record. His former shipmate, the late B. G.
Stimson, a distinguished citizen of Detroit, said the account of
the flogging was far from an exaggeration, and Captain Faucon of
the Alert also during his lifetime frequently confirmed all that
came under his observation. Such truth in the author demands truth
in illustration, and I have cooperated with the publishers in
securing a painting of the Alert under full sail and other
illustrations, both colored and in pen and ink, faithful to the
text in every detail.
Accuracy, however, is not the secret of the success of this book.
Its flowing style, the use of short Anglo-Saxon words,[3] its
picturesqueness, the power of description, the philosophic
arrangement all contribute to it, but chiefly, I believe, the
enthusiasm of the young Dana, his sympathy for his fellows and
interest in new scenes and strange peoples, and with it all, the
real poetry that runs through the whole. As to its poetry, I will
quote from Mrs. Bancroft's ``Letters from England,'' giving the
opinion of the poet Samuel Rogers:
``London, June 20, 1847.
``The 19th, Sat. we breakfasted with Lady Byron and my friend Miss
Murray, at Mr. Rogers'. . . . After breakfast he had been
repeating some lines of poetry which he thought fine, when he
suddenly exclaimed, `But there is a bit of American prose, which,
I think, has more poetry in it, than almost any modern verse.' He
then repeated, I should think, more than a page from Dana's `Two
Years Before the Mast' describing the falling overboard of one of
the crew, and the effect it produced, not only at the moment, but
for some time afterward. I wondered at his memory, which enabled
him to recite so beautifully a long prose passage, so much more
difficult than verse. Several of those present, with whom the book
was a favorite, were so glad to hear from me that it was as true
as interesting, for they had regarded it as partly a work of
imagination.''
In writing the book Mr. Dana had a motive which inspired him to
put into it his very best. The night after the flogging of his two
fellow-sailors off San Pedro, California, Mr. Dana, lying in his
berth, ``vowed that, if God should ever give me the means, I would
do something to redress the grievances and relieve the sufferings
of that class of beings with whom my lot has been so long cast.''
This vow he carried out in no visionary scheme of mutiny or
foolish ``paying back'' to the captain, but by awakening a
``strong sympathy'' for the sailors ``by a voice from the
forecastle,'' in his ``Two Years Before the Mast.''
While at sea he made entries almost daily in a pocket notebook and
at leisure hours wrote these out fully. This full account of his
voyage was lost with his trunk containing sailors' clothes and all
souvenirs and presents for family and friends by the carelessness
of a relative who took charge of his things at the wharf when he
landed in Boston in 1836. Later, while in the Law School, Mr. Dana
re-wrote this account from the notebook, which, fortunately, he
had not entrusted to the lost trunk. This account he read to his
father and Washington Allston, artist and poet, his uncle by
marriage. Both advised its publication and the manuscript was sent
to William Cullen Bryant, who had then moved to New York. Mr.
Bryant, after looking it over, took it to a prominent publisher of
his city, as the publishers at that time most able to give the
book a large sale. They offered to buy the book outright but
refused the author any share in the profits. The firm had
submitted the manuscript to Alonzo Potter, afterwards Bishop of
Pennsylvania, then acting as one of their readers. Bishop Potter,
meeting Dana in England years later, told him most emphatically
that he had advised the purchase at any price necessary to secure
it. The most, however, that the elder Dana and Bryant were able to
get from the publishers was $250, so that modest sum with two
dozen printed copies was all the author received at that time for
this most successful book. Incidentally, however, the publication
brought Mr. Dana law practice, especially among sailors, and was
an introduction to him not only in this country but in England.
Editions were published in Great Britain and France. Moxon, the
London publisher, sent Mr. Dana not only presentation copies but
as a voluntary honorarium, there being no international copyright
law at that time, a sum of money larger than the publisher gave
him for the manuscript. He also received kindly words of
appreciation from Rogers, Brougham, Moore, Bulwer, Dickens and
others, and fifteen years later his reputation secured him a large
social and literary reception in England in 1856. At last, in
1868, the original copyright expired and my father brought out the
``author's edition'' thoroughly revised and with many important
additions to the text including the ``Twenty-four Years After''
under a fair arrangement for percentage of sales with Fields,
Osgood and Co., the predecessors of the present publishers.
In reading the story of this Harvard College undergraduate's
experience, one should bear in mind, to appreciate the dangers of
his rounding the Cape, that the brig Pilgrim was only one hundred
and eighty tons burden and eighty-six feet and six inches long,
shorter on the water line than many of our summer-sailing sloop
and schooner yachts.
Richard Henry Dana.
[1] ``Richard Henry Dana, Jr.'' A Biography. By Charles Francis Adams.
In two volumes. Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Company.
[2] ``Speeches in Stirring Times and Letters to a Son.'' Richard Henry
Dana, Jr., with introduction and notes by Richard Henry Dana, 3rd.
In one volume. Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Company.
[3] Extracts from this book were chosen by the oculists of the
United States for use in testing eyes on account of its clearness
in style and freedom from long words.
CHAPTER I
The fourteenth of August[1] was the day fixed upon for the sailing
of the brig Pilgrim, on her voyage from Boston, round Cape Horn,
to the Western coast of North America. As she was to get under way
early in the afternoon, I made my appearance on board at twelve
o'clock, in full sea-rig, with my chest, containing an outfit for
a two or three years' voyage, which I had undertaken from a
determination to cure, if possible, by an entire change of life,
and by a long absence from books, with a plenty of hard work,
plain food, and open air, a weakness of the eyes, which had
obliged me to give up my studies, and which no medical aid seemed
likely to remedy.
The change from the tight frock-coat, silk cap, and kid gloves of
an undergraduate at Harvard, to the loose duck trousers, checked
shirt, and tarpaulin hat of a sailor, though somewhat of a
transformation, was soon made; and I supposed that I should pass
very well for a Jack tar. But it is impossible to deceive the
practised eye in these matters; and while I thought myself to be
looking as salt as Neptune himself, I was, no doubt, known for a
landsman by every one on board as soon as I hove in sight. A
sailor has a peculiar cut to his clothes, and a way of wearing
them which a green hand can never get. The trousers, tight round
the hips, and thence hanging long and loose round the feet, a
superabundance of checked shirt, a low-crowned, well-varnished
black hat, worn on the back of the head, with half a fathom of
black ribbon hanging over the left eye, and a slip-tie to the
black silk neckerchief, with sundry other minutiae, are signs, the
want of which betrays the beginner at once. Besides the points in
my dress which were out of the way, doubtless my complexion and
hands were quite enough to distinguish me from the regular salt
who, with a sunburnt cheek, wide step, and rolling gait, swings
his bronzed and toughened hands athwart-ships, half opened, as
though just ready to grasp a rope.
``With all my imperfections on my head,'' I joined the crew, and
we hauled out into the stream, and came to anchor for the night.
The next day we were employed in preparation for sea, reeving
studding-sail gear, crossing royal yards, putting on chafing gear,
and taking on board our powder. On the following night, I stood my
first watch. I remained awake nearly all the first part of the
night from fear that I might not hear when I was called; and when
I went on deck, so great were my ideas of the importance of my
trust, that I walked regularly fore and aft the whole length of
the vessel, looking out over the bows and taffrail at each turn,
and was not a little surprised at the coolness of the old seaman
whom I called to take my place, in stowing himself snugly away
under the long-boat for a nap. That was a sufficient lookout, he
thought, for a fine night, at anchor in a safe harbor.
The next morning was Saturday, and, a breeze having sprung up from
the southward, we took a pilot on board, hove up our anchor, and
began beating down the bay. I took leave of those of my friends
who came to see me off, and had barely opportunity for a last look
at the city and well-known objects, as no time is allowed on board
ship for sentiment. As we drew down into the lower harbor, we
found the wind ahead in the bay, and were obliged to come to
anchor in the roads. We remained there through the day and a part
of the night. My watch began at eleven o'clock at night, and I
received orders to call the captain if the wind came out from the
westward. About midnight the wind became fair, and, having
summoned the captain, I was ordered to call all hands. How I
accomplished this, I do not know, but I am quite sure that I did
not give the true hoarse boatswain call of ``A-a-ll ha-a-a-nds !
up anchor, a-ho-oy!'' In a short time every one was in motion, the
sails loosed, the yards braced, and we began to heave up the
anchor, which was our last hold upon Yankee land. I could take but
small part in these preparations. My little knowledge of a vessel
was all at fault. Unintelligible orders were so rapidly given, and
so immediately executed; there was such a hurrying about, and such
an intermingling of strange cries and stranger actions, that I was
completely bewildered. There is not so helpless and pitiable an
object in the world as a landsman beginning a sailor's life. At
length those peculiar, long-drawn sounds which denote that the
crew are heaving at the windlass began, and in a few minutes we
were under way. The noise of the water thrown from the bows was
heard, the vessel leaned over from the damp night-breeze, and
rolled with the heavy groundswell, and we had actually begun our
long, long journey. This was literally bidding good night to my
native land.
[1] [In the year 1834.]