At eleven o’clock the next day the Tyler having shaken out her pinions,
and spread them to the breeze, commenced at a rapid rate her long and
solitary voyage across the Atlantic. Object after object rose in rapid
succession into distinct view, was approached and passed, until leaving
the calm and sheltered waters of the bay, we emerged into the ocean, and
involuntarily turned to look back upon the land we had left. Long after
the lesser hills and low country had disappeared, a few ambitious peaks
of the highlands still met the eye, appearing as if they had advanced
to the very edge of the water, to prolong the view of us till the last
moment.
This coast is a portion of my native continent, for though not a subject
of the Republic, I am still an American in its larger sense, having been
born in a British province in this hemisphere. I therefore sympathised
with the feelings of my two companions, whose straining eyes were still
fixed on those dim and distant specks in the horizon.
“There,” said Mr. Slick, rising from his seat, “I believe we have seen
the last of home till next time; and this I will say, it is the most
glorious country onder the sun; travel where you will, you won’t ditto
it no where. It is the toploftiest place in all creation, ain’t it,
minister?”
There was no response to all this bombast. It was evident he had not
been heard; and turning to Mr. Hopewell, I observed his eyes were
fixed intently on the distance, and his mind pre-occupied by painful
reflexions, for tears were coursing after each other down his furrowed
but placid cheek.
“Squire,” said Mr. Slick to me, “this won’t do. We must not allow him to
dwell too long on the thoughts of leaving home, or he’ll droop like any
thing, and p’raps, hang his head and fade right away. He is aged and
feeble, and every thing depends on keeping up his spirits. An old plant
must be shaded, well watered, and tended, or you can’t transplant it no
how, you can fix it, that’s a fact. He won’t give ear to me now, for
he knows I can’t talk serious, if I was to try; but he will listen to
_you_. Try to cheer him up, and I will go down below and give you a
chance.”
As soon as I addressed him, he started and said, “Oh! is it you, Squire?
come and sit down by me, my friend. I can talk to _you_, and I assure
you I take great pleasure in doing so I cannot always talk to Sam: he
is excited now; he is anticipating great pleasure from his visit to
England, and is quite boisterous in the exuberance of his spirits. I
own I am depressed at times; it is natural I should be, but I shall
endeavour not to be the cause of sadness in others. I not only like
cheerfulness myself, but I like to promote it; it is a sign of an
innocent mind, and a heart in peace with God and in charity with man.
All nature is cheerful, its voice is harmonious, and its countenance
smiling; the very garb in which it is clothed is gay; why then should
man be an exception to every thing around him? Sour sectarians, who
address our fears, rather than our affections, may say what they please,
Sir, but mirth is not inconsistent with religion, but rather an evidence
that our religion is right. If I appear dull, therefore, do not suppose
it is because I think it necessary to be so, but because certain
reflections are natural to me as a clergyman, as a man far advanced in
years, and as a pilgrim who leaves his home at a period of life, when
the probabilities are, he may not be spared to revisit it.
“I am like yourself, a colonist by birth. At the revolution I took no
part in the struggle; my profession and my habits both exempted me.
Whether the separation was justifiable or not, either on civil or
religious principles, it is not now necessary to discuss. It took place,
however, and the colonies became a nation, and after due consideration,
I concluded to dwell among mine own people. There I have continued, with
the exception of one or two short journeys for the benefit of my health,
to the present period. Parting with those whom I have known so long and
loved so well, is doubtless a trial to one whose heart is still warm,
while his nerves are weak, and whose affections are greater than his
firmness. But I weary you with this egotism?”
“Not at all,” I replied, “I am both instructed and delighted by your
conversation. Pray proceed, Sir.”
“Well it is kind, very kind of you,” said he, “to say so. I will explain
these sensations to you, and then endeavour never to allude to
them again. America is my birth-place and my home. Home has two
significations, a restricted one and an enlarged one; in its restricted
sense, it is the place of our abode, it includes our social circle, our
parents, children, and friends, and contains the living and the dead;
the past and the present generations of our race. By a very natural
process, the scene of our affections soon becomes identified with them,
and a portion of our regard is transferred from animate to inanimate
objects. The streams on which we sported, the mountains on which we
clambered, the fields in which we wandered, the school where we were
instructed, the church where we worshipped, the very bell whose pensive
melancholy music recalled our wandering steps in youth, awaken in
after-years many a tender thought, many a pleasing recollection, and
appeal to the heart with the force and eloquence of love. The country
again contains all these things, the sphere is widened, new objects are
included, and this extension of the circle is love of country. It is
thus that the nation is said in an enlarged sense, to be our home also.
“This love of country is both natural and laudable: so natural, that to
exclude a man from his country, is the greatest punishment that country
can inflict upon him; and so laudable, that when it becomes a principle
of action, it forms the hero and the patriot. How impressive, how
beautiful, how dignified was the answer of the Shunamite woman to
Elisha, who in his gratitude to her for her hospitality and kindness,
made her a tender of his interest at court. ‘Wouldst thou,’ said he, ‘be
spoken for to the king, or to the captain of the host?’--What an offer
was that, to gratify her ambition or flatter her pride!--‘I dwell,’ said
she, ‘among mine own people.’ What a characteristic answer! all history
furnishes no parallel to it.
“I too dwell ‘among my own people:’ my affections are there, and there
also is the sphere of my duties; and if I am depressed by the thoughts
of parting from ‘my people,’ I will do you the justice to believe, that
you would rather bear with its effects, than witness the absence of such
natural affection.
“But this is not the sole cause: independently of some afflictions of
a clerical nature in my late parish, to which it is not necessary to
allude, the contemplation of this vast and fathomless ocean, both
from its novelty and its grandeur, overwhelms me. At home I am fond
of tracing the Creator in his works. From the erratic comet in the
firmament, to the flower that blossoms in the field; in all animate, and
inanimate matter; in all that is animal, vegetable or mineral, I see His
infinite wisdom, almighty power, and everlasting glory.
“But that Home is inland; I have not beheld the sea now for many years.
I never saw it without emotion; I now view it with awe. What an emblem
of eternity!--Its dominion is alone reserved to Him, who made it.
Changing yet changeless--ever varying, yet always the same. How weak
and powerless is man! how short his span of life, when he is viewed
in connexion with the sea! He has left no trace upon it--it will not
receive the impress of his hands; it obeys no laws, but those imposed
upon it by Him, who called it into existence; generation after
generation has looked upon it as we now do--and where are they? Like
yonder waves that press upon each other in regular succession, they have
passed away for ever; and their nation, their language, their temples
and their tombs have perished with them. But there is the Undying one.
When man was formed, the voice of the ocean was heard, as it now is,
speaking of its mysteries, and proclaiming His glory, who alone lifteth
its waves or stilleth the rage thereof.
“And yet, my dear friend, for so you must allow me to call you, awful as
these considerations are, which it suggests, who are they that go down
to the sea in ships and occupy their business in great waters? The
sordid trader, and the armed and mercenary sailor: gold or blood is
their object, and the fear of God is not always in them. Yet the sea
shall give up its dead, as well as the grave; and all shall--
“But it is not my intention to preach to you. To intrude serious topics
upon our friends at all times, has a tendency to make both ourselves and
our topics distasteful. I mention these things to you, not that they are
not obvious to you and every other right-minded man, or that I think
I can clothe them in more attractive language, or utter them with more
effect than others; but merely to account for my absence of mind and
evident air of abstraction. I know my days are numbered, and in the
nature of things, that those that are left, cannot be many.
“Pardon me, therefore, I pray you, my friend; make allowances for an old
man, unaccustomed to leave home, and uncertain whether he shall ever be
permitted to return to it. I feel deeply and sensibly your kindness in
soliciting my company on this tour, and will endeavour so to regulate
my feelings as not to make you regret your invitation. I shall not again
recur to these topics, or trouble you with any further reflections ‘on
Home and the Sea.’”