HE ENDEAVORS TO IMPROVE HIS MIND; AND TELLS OF ONE BLUNT AND HIS DREAM
BOOK
On the Sunday afternoon I spoke of, it was my watch below, and I
thought I would spend it profitably, in improving my mind.
My bunk was an upper one; and right over the head of it was a
_bull’s-eye,_ or circular piece of thick ground glass, inserted into
the deck to give light. It was a dull, dubious light, though; and I
often found myself looking up anxiously to see whether the bull’s-eye
had not suddenly been put out; for whenever any one trod on it, in
walking the deck, it was momentarily quenched; and what was still
worse, sometimes a coil of rope would be thrown down on it, and stay
there till I dressed myself and went up to remove it—a kind of
interruption to my studies which annoyed me very much, when diligently
occupied in reading.
However, I was glad of any light at all, down in that gloomy hole,
where we burrowed like rabbits in a warren; and it was the happiest
time I had, when all my messmates were asleep, and I could lie on my
back, during a forenoon watch below, and read in comparative quiet and
seclusion.
I had already read two books loaned to me by Max, to whose share they
had fallen, in dividing the effects of the sailor who had jumped
overboard. One was an account of Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, and
the other was a large black volume, with _Delirium Tremens_ in great
gilt letters on the back. This proved to be a popular treatise on the
subject of that disease; and I remembered seeing several copies in the
sailor book-stalls about Fulton Market, and along South-street, in New
York.
But this Sunday I got out a book, from which I expected to reap great
profit and sound instruction. It had been presented to me by Mr. Jones,
who had quite a library, and took down this book from a top shelf,
where it lay very dusty. When he gave it to me, he said, that although
I was going to sea, I must not forget the importance of a good
education; and that there was hardly any situation in life, however
humble and depressed, or dark and gloomy, but one might find leisure in
it to store his mind, and build himself up in the exact sciences. And
he added, that though it _did_ look rather unfavorable for my future
prospects, to be going to sea as a common sailor so early in life; yet,
it would no doubt turn out for my benefit in the end; and, at any rate,
if I would only take good care of myself, would give me a sound
constitution, if nothing more; and _that_ was not to be undervalued,
for how many very rich men would give all their bonds and mortgages for
my boyish robustness.
He added, that I need not expect any light, trivial work, that was
merely entertaining, and nothing more; but here I would find
entertainment and edification beautifully and harmoniously combined;
and though, at first, I might possibly find it dull, yet, if I perused
the book thoroughly, it would soon discover hidden charms and
unforeseen attractions; besides teaching me, perhaps, the true way to
retrieve the poverty of my family, and again make them all well-to-do
in the world.
Saying this, he handed it to me, and I blew the dust off, and looked at
the back: _“Smith’s Wealth of Nations.”_ This not satisfying me, I
glanced at the title page, and found it was an _“Enquiry into the
Nature and Causes”_ of the alleged wealth of nations. But happening to
look further down, I caught sight of _“Aberdeen,”_ where the book was
printed; and thinking that any thing from Scotland, a foreign country,
must prove some way or other pleasing to me, I thanked Mr. Jones very
kindly, and promised to peruse the volume carefully.
So, now, lying in my bunk, I began the book methodically, at page
number one, resolved not to permit a few flying glimpses into it, taken
previously, to prevent me from making regular approaches to the gist
and body of the book, where I fancied lay something like the
philosopher’s stone, a secret talisman, which would transmute even
pitch and tar to silver and gold.
Pleasant, though vague visions of future opulence floated before me, as
I commenced the first chapter, entitled _“Of the causes of improvement
in the productive power of labor.”_ Dry as crackers and cheese, to be
sure; and the chapter itself was not much better. But this was only
getting initiated; and if I read on, the grand secret would be opened
to me. So I read on and on, about _“wages and profits of labor,”_
without getting any profits myself for my pains in perusing it.
Dryer and dryer; the very leaves smelt of saw-dust; till at last I
drank some water, and went at it again. But soon I had to give it up
for lost work; and thought that the old backgammon board, we had at
home, lettered on the back, _“The History of Rome”_ was quite as full
of matter, and a great deal more entertaining. I wondered whether Mr.
Jones had ever read the volume himself; and could not help remembering,
that he had to get on a chair when he reached it down from its dusty
shelf; _that_ certainly looked suspicious.
The best reading was on the fly leaves; and, on turning them over, I
lighted upon some half effaced pencil-marks to the following effect:
_“Jonathan Jones, from his particular friend Daniel Dods,_ 1798.” So it
must have originally belonged to Mr. Jones’ father; and I wondered
whether _he_ had ever read it; or, indeed, whether any body had ever
read it, even the author himself; but then authors, they say, never
read their own books; writing them, being enough in all conscience.
At length I fell asleep, with the volume in my hand; and never slept so
sound before; after that, I used to wrap my jacket round it, and use it
for a pillow; for which purpose it answered very well; only I sometimes
waked up feeling dull and stupid; but of course the book could not have
been the cause of that.
And now I am talking of books, I must tell of Jack Blunt the sailor,
and his Dream Book.
Jackson, who seemed to know every thing about all parts of the world,
used to tell Jack in reproach, that he was an _Irish Cockney._ By which
I understood, that he was an Irishman born, but had graduated in
London, somewhere about Radcliffe Highway; but he had no sort of brogue
that I could hear.
He was a curious looking fellow, about twenty-five years old, as I
should judge; but to look at his back, you would have taken him for a
little old man. His arms and legs were very large, round, short, and
stumpy; so that when he had on his great monkey-jacket, and sou’west
cap flapping in his face, and his sea boots drawn up to his knees, he
looked like a fat porpoise, standing on end. He had a round face, too,
like a walrus; and with about the same expression, half human and half
indescribable. He was, upon the whole, a good-natured fellow, and a
little given to looking at sea-life romantically; singing songs about
susceptible mermaids who fell in love with handsome young oyster boys
and gallant fishermen. And he had a sad story about a man-of-war’s-man
who broke his heart at Portsmouth during the late war, and threw away
his life recklessly at one of the quarter-deck cannonades, in the
battle between the Guerriere and Constitution; and another
incomprehensible story about a sort of fairy sea-queen, who used to be
dunning a sea-captain all the time for his autograph to boil in some
eel soup, for a spell against the scurvy.
He believed in all kinds of witch-work and magic; and had some wild
Irish words he used to mutter over during a calm for a fair wind.
And he frequently related his interviews in Liverpool with a
fortune-teller, an old negro woman by the name of De Squak, whose house
was much frequented by sailors; and how she had two black cats, with
remarkably green eyes, and nightcaps on their heads, solemnly seated on
a claw-footed table near the old goblin; when she felt his pulse, to
tell what was going to befall him.
This Blunt had a large head of hair, very thick and bushy; but from
some cause or other, it was rapidly turning gray; and in its transition
state made him look as if he wore a shako of badger skin.
The phenomenon of gray hairs on a young head, had perplexed and
confounded this Blunt to such a degree that he at last came to the
conclusion it must be the result of the black art, wrought upon him by
an enemy; and that enemy, he opined, was an old sailor landlord in
Marseilles, whom he had once seriously offended, by knocking him down
in a fray.
So while in New York, finding his hair growing grayer and grayer, and
all his friends, the ladies and others, laughing at him, and calling
him an old man with one foot in the grave, he slipt out one night to an
apothecary’s, stated his case, and wanted to know what could be done
for him.
The apothecary immediately gave him a pint bottle of something he
called _“Trafalgar Oil_ for restoring the hair,” _price one dollar;_
and told him that after he had used that bottle, and it did not have
the desired effect, he must try bottle No. 2, called _“Balm of
Paradise, or the Elixir of the Battle of Copenhagen.”_ These
high-sounding naval names delighted Blunt, and he had no doubt there
must be virtue in them.
I saw both bottles; and on one of them was an engraving, representing a
young man, presumed to be gray-headed, standing in his night-dress in
the middle of his chamber, and with closed eyes applying the Elixir to
his head, with both hands; while on the bed adjacent stood a large
bottle, conspicuously labeled, _“Balm of Paradise.”_ It seemed from the
text, that this gray-headed young man was so smitten with his hair-oil,
and was so thoroughly persuaded of its virtues, that he had got out of
bed, even in his sleep; groped into his closet, seized the precious
bottle, applied its contents, and then to bed again, getting up in the
morning without knowing any thing about it. Which, indeed, was a most
mysterious occurrence; and it was still more mysterious, how the
engraver came to know an event, of which the actor himself was
ignorant, and where there were no bystanders.
Three times in the twenty-four hours, Blunt, while at sea, regularly
rubbed in his liniments; but though the first bottle was soon exhausted
by his copious applications, and the second half gone, he still stuck
to it, that by the time we got to Liverpool, his exertions would be
crowned with success. And he was not a little delighted, that this
gradual change would be operating while we were at sea; so as not to
expose him to the invidious observations of people ashore; on the same
principle that dandies go into the country when they purpose raising
whiskers. He would often ask his shipmates, whether they noticed any
change yet; and if so, how much of a change? And to tell the truth,
there was a very great change indeed; for the constant soaking of his
hair with oil, operating in conjunction with the neglect of his toilet,
and want of a brush and comb, had matted his locks together like a wild
horse’s mane, and imparted to it a blackish and extremely glossy hue.
Besides his collection of hair-oils, Blunt had also provided himself
with several boxes of pills, which he had purchased from a sailor
doctor in New York, who by placards stuck on the posts along the
wharves, advertised to remain standing at the northeast corner of
Catharine Market, every Monday and Friday, between the hours of ten and
twelve in the morning, to receive calls from patients, distribute
medicines, and give advice gratis.
Whether Blunt thought he had the dyspepsia or not, I can not say; but
at breakfast, he always took three pills with his coffee; something as
they do in Iowa, when the bilious fever prevails; where, at the
boarding-houses, they put a vial of blue pills into the castor, along
with the pepper and mustard, and next door to another vial of
toothpicks. But they are very ill-bred and unpolished in the western
country.
Several times, too, Blunt treated himself to a flowing bumper of _horse
salts_ (Glauber salts); for like many other seamen, he never went to
sea without a good supply of that luxury. He would frequently, also,
take this medicine in a wet jacket, and then go on deck into a rain
storm. But this is nothing to other sailors, who at sea will doctor
themselves with calomel off Cape Horn, and still remain on duty. And in
this connection, some really frightful stories might be told; but I
forbear.
For a landsman to take salts as this Blunt did, it would perhaps be the
death of him; but at sea the salt air and the salt water prevent you
from catching cold so readily as on land; and for my own part, on board
this very ship, being so illy-provided with clothes, I frequently
turned into my bunk soaking wet, and turned out again piping hot, and
smoking like a roasted sirloin; and yet was never the worse for it; for
then, I bore a charmed life of youth and health, and was dagger-proof
to bodily ill.
But it is time to tell of the Dream Book. Snugly hidden in one corner
of his chest, Blunt had an extraordinary looking pamphlet, with a red
cover, marked all over with astrological signs and ciphers, and
purporting to be a full and complete treatise on the art of Divination;
so that the most simple sailor could teach it to himself.
It also purported to be the selfsame system, by aid of which Napoleon
Bonaparte had risen in the world from being a corporal to an emperor.
Hence it was entitled the _Bonaparte Dream Book;_ for the magic of it
lay in the interpretation of dreams, and their application to the
foreseeing of future events; so that all preparatory measures might be
taken beforehand; which would be exceedingly convenient, and
satisfactory every way, if true. The problems were to be cast by means
of figures, in some perplexed and difficult way, which, however, was
facilitated by a set of tables in the end of the pamphlet, something
like the Logarithm Tables at the end of Bowditch’s Navigator.
Now, Blunt revered, adored, and worshiped this _Bonaparte Dream Book_
of his; and was fully persuaded that between those red covers, and in
his own dreams, lay all the secrets of futurity. Every morning before
taking his pills, and applying his hair-oils, he would steal out of his
bunk before the rest of the watch were awake; take out his pamphlet,
and a bit of chalk; and then straddling his chest, begin scratching his
oily head to remember his fugitive dreams; marking down strokes on his
chest-lid, as if he were casting up his daily accounts.
Though often perplexed and lost in mazes concerning the cabalistic
figures in the book, and the chapter of directions to beginners; for he
could with difficulty read at all; yet, in the end, if not interrupted,
he somehow managed to arrive at a conclusion satisfactory to him. So
that, as he generally wore a good-humored expression, no doubt he must
have thought, that all his future affairs were working together for the
best.
But one night he started us all up in a fright, by springing from his
bunk, his eyes ready to start out of his head, and crying, in a husky
voice—“Boys! boys! get the benches ready! Quick, quick!”
“What benches?” growled Max—“What’s the matter?”
“Benches! benches!” screamed Blunt, without heeding him, “cut down the
forests, bear a hand, boys; the Day of Judgment’s coming!”
But the next moment, he got quietly into his bunk, and laid still,
muttering to himself, he had only been rambling in his sleep.
I did not know exactly what he had meant by his _benches;_ till,
shortly after, I overheard two of the sailors debating, whether mankind
would stand or sit at the Last Day.