THE EMIGRANTS
After the first miserable weather we experienced at sea, we had
intervals of foul and fair, mostly the former, however, attended with
head winds, till at last, after a three days’ fog and rain, the sun
rose cheerily one morning, and showed us Cape Clear. Thank heaven, we
were out of the weather emphatically called _“Channel weather,”_ and
the last we should see of the eastern hemisphere was now in plain
sight, and all the rest was broad ocean.
_Land ho!_ was cried, as the dark purple headland grew out of the
north. At the cry, the Irish emigrants came rushing up the hatchway,
thinking America itself was at hand.
“Where is it?” cried one of them, running out a little way on the
bowsprit. “Is _that_ it?”
“Aye, it doesn’t look much like _ould_ Ireland, does it?” said Jackson.
“Not a bit, honey:—and how long before we get there? to-night?”
Nothing could exceed the disappointment and grief of the emigrants,
when they were at last informed, that the land to the north was their
own native island, which, after leaving three or four weeks previous in
a steamboat for Liverpool, was now close to them again; and that, after
newly voyaging so many days from the Mersey, the Highlander was only
bringing them in view of the original home whence they started.
They were the most simple people I had ever seen. They seemed to have
no adequate idea of distances; and to them, America must have seemed as
a place just over a river. Every morning some of them came on deck, to
see how much nearer we were: and one old man would stand for hours
together, looking straight off from the bows, as if he expected to see
New York city every minute, when, perhaps, we were yet two thousand
miles distant, and steering, moreover, against a head wind.
The only thing that ever diverted this poor old man from his earnest
search for land, was the occasional appearance of porpoises under the
bows; when he would cry out at the top of his voice—“Look, look, ye
divils! look at the great pigs of the sea!”
At last, the emigrants began to think, that the ship had played them
false; and that she was bound for the East Indies, or some other remote
place; and one night, Jackson set a report going among them, that Riga
purposed taking them to Barbary, and selling them all for slaves; but
though some of the old women almost believed it, and a great weeping
ensued among the children, yet the men knew better than to believe such
a ridiculous tale.
Of all the emigrants, my Italian boy Carlo, seemed most at his ease. He
would lie all day in a dreamy mood, sunning himself in the long boat,
and gazing out on the sea. At night, he would bring up his organ, and
play for several hours; much to the delight of his fellow voyagers, who
blessed him and his organ again and again; and paid him for his music
by furnishing him his meals. Sometimes, the steward would come forward,
when it happened to be very much of a moonlight, with a message from
the cabin, for Carlo to repair to the quarterdeck, and entertain the
gentlemen and ladies.
There was a fiddler on board, as will presently be seen; and sometimes,
by urgent entreaties, he was induced to unite his music with Carlo’s,
for the benefit of the cabin occupants; but this was only twice or
thrice: for this fiddler deemed himself considerably elevated above the
other steerage-passengers; and did not much fancy the idea of fiddling
to strangers; and thus wear out his elbow, while persons, entirely
unknown to him, and in whose welfare he felt not the slightest
interest, were curveting about in famous high spirits. So for the most
part, the gentlemen and ladies were fain to dance as well as they could
to my little Italian’s organ.
It was the most accommodating organ in the world; for it could play any
tune that was called for; Carlo pulling in and out the ivory knobs at
one side, and so manufacturing melody at pleasure.
True, some censorious gentlemen cabin-passengers protested, that such
or such an air, was not precisely according to Handel or Mozart; and
some ladies, whom I overheard talking about throwing their nosegays to
Malibran at Covent Garden, assured the attentive Captain Riga, that
Carlo’s organ was a most wretched affair, and made a horrible din.
“Yes, ladies,” said the captain, bowing, “by your leave, I think
Carlo’s organ must have lost its mother, for it squeals like a pig
running after its dam.”
Harry was incensed at these criticisms; and yet these cabin-people were
all ready enough to dance to poor Carlo’s music.
“Carlo”—said I, one night, as he was marching forward from the
quarter-deck, after one of these sea-quadrilles, which took place
during my watch on deck:—“Carlo”—said I, “what do the gentlemen and
ladies give you for playing?”
“Look!”—and he showed me three copper medals of Britannia and her
shield—three English pennies.
Now, whenever we discover a dislike in us, toward any one, we should
ever be a little suspicious of ourselves. It may be, therefore, that
the natural antipathy with which almost all seamen and
steerage-passengers, regard the inmates of the cabin, was one cause at
least, of my not feeling very charitably disposed toward them, myself.
Yes: that might have been; but nevertheless, I will let nature have her
own way for once; and here declare roundly, that, however it was, I
cherished a feeling toward these cabin-passengers, akin to contempt.
Not because they happened to be cabin-passengers: not at all: but only
because they seemed the most finical, miserly, mean men and women, that
ever stepped over the Atlantic.
One of them was an old fellow in a robust looking coat, with broad
skirts; he had a nose like a bottle of port-wine; and would stand for a
whole hour, with his legs straddling apart, and his hands deep down in
his breeches pockets, as if he had two mints at work there, coining
guineas. He was an abominable looking old fellow, with cold, fat,
jelly-like eyes; and avarice, heartlessness, and sensuality stamped all
over him. He seemed all the time going through some process of mental
arithmetic; doing sums with dollars and cents: his very mouth, wrinkled
and drawn up at the corners, looked like a purse. When he dies, his
skull ought to be turned into a savings box, with the till-hole between
his teeth.
Another of the cabin inmates, was a middle-aged Londoner, in a comical
Cockney-cut coat, with a pair of semicircular tails: so that he looked
as if he were sitting in a swing. He wore a spotted neckerchief; a
short, little, fiery-red vest; and striped pants, very thin in the
calf, but very full about the waist. There was nothing describable
about him but his dress; for he had such a meaningless face, I can not
remember it; though I have a vague impression, that it looked at the
time, as if its owner was laboring under the mumps.
Then there were two or three buckish looking young fellows, among the
rest; who were all the time playing at cards on the poop, under the lee
of the _spanker;_ or smoking cigars on the taffrail; or sat quizzing
the emigrant women with opera-glasses, leveled through the windows of
the upper cabin. These sparks frequently called for the steward to help
them to brandy and water, and talked about going on to Washington, to
see Niagara Falls.
There was also an old gentleman, who had brought with him three or four
heavy files of the _London Times,_ and other papers; and he spent all
his hours in reading them, on the shady side of the deck, with one leg
crossed over the other; and without crossed legs, he never read at all.
That was indispensable to the proper understanding of what he studied.
He growled terribly, when disturbed by the sailors, who now and then
were obliged to move him to get at the ropes.
As for the ladies, I have nothing to say concerning them; for ladies
are like creeds; if you can not speak well of them, say nothing.